The Scarecrow
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: Ivan is a lonely sentinel standing in the fields, day in, day out. Little changes in his humdrum existence, pardoning the day his button eyes land on the village headman's son, Alfred Jones. Eventual Rusame, CanadaxEngland.
1. Birth

o~0*oOo*0~o

Ivan had only the very faintest idea of how he had come into the world. He remembered that the world had formed from darkness into a haze, and that he could gradually feel himself becoming bigger and bigger, his insides slowly rising as material filled in, giving his wooden frame substance when previously there was none. He remembered little needles filing in and out of his skin like so many fussy little workers, pulling him together. After awhile, silence was permeated by sound, sound garbled and strange, as if someone were trying to speak underwater, their words exploding into bubbles. But soon enough, he had been able to distinguish voices out of the haze, and the voices had made _words_:

"It's about bloody time we got a new one—Erik's old one is falling apart at the pieces, hardly no good for scaring away no birds," grumbled somebody. There were mutterings of agreement.

"Give 'im a big nose," said another voice, this one soft and breathy in comparison to the other rough, rather hoarse one. "A colossal one." Ivan felt something pressed against his blank face. "That big enough, then?"

"No, make it larger!" insisted a new voice, lilting and fast. "You know what they say about big noses…." Gales of merriment swept around the scarecrow, and he heard the rougher and lower voices chuckle nervously. The object pressed against Ivan's face was replaced, and soon enough needles were driving in again, anchoring the appendage to his skin. Then, someone removed the buttons that had been placed over his face and said, "I don't really think green's REALLY his color….I say we give 'im some big purple eyes. That'll scare the boots off any neighbors who try sneakin' into the fields late at night." There were murmurings of agreement, and darkness slowly began to turn into light as one eye, and then the other was sewn into Ivan's rough flesh.

The haze turned into blurred colors, shapes, and finally, figures gathered around him, looking at him. Ivan stared. He stared because he could do nothing else as they continued stuffing straw into his torso, tying the bale of hay so that Ivan's chest would not fall to pieces. Soon enough, they began dressing him, though people were still poking at his face.

"Eyes…nose….do we give him a pipe to smoke?" Someone with a dark waterfall of straw coming out of her head asked, her eyes disappearing for the briefest of seconds before reappearing again. Ivan was stunned.

"No, too much trouble; give him a mouth," advised a person who looked remarkably similar to the dark-haired girl, and someone reached for Ivan's cloth face, something sharp and gleaming clutched in his hand. He felt someone tear into the space below his nose, making a wide line.

"Make it more crooked!" a very small somebody suggested, with thick brows and yellow hair. "Big and scary!"

"How's this then?" The knife went up and down just a little inside of Ivan, and the child clapped his hands. People pulled up a pair of old trousers over Ivan's legs, and buttoned a threadbare shirt over his large chest and broad shoulders. A man with a straw hat had looked Ivan up and down, clucking appreciatively.

"Crows've been so bad these past few years, it'd be good if we could get maybe a few more of these fellows," he commented thoughtfully as three people pulled the motionless Ivan to his feet, pulling very large old boots over the straw husks. "But he certainly looks much scarier than the ones you lasses have made in the past," he said cheerfully, the girls in the crowd groaning and clucking reproachfully. He held up his hands, the corners of his mouth turning up. "Now, now…not to say that they haven't been good, but they're too darn cute. The three last scarecrows weren't nearly as scary as this here fellow—why, that little one got pecked to pieces!" Ivan just looked at him, still saying nothing.

Everyone seemed finished with Ivan now that he had been born, though it looked like several boys were getting ready to take Ivan wherever it was they wanted him to be. But it had been the farmer's little girl who had given Ivan his heart, timidly stepping forward amongst her siblings to tuck inside the straw of his breast a tiny pincushion of sorts, a misshapen and clumsily put-together heart. "Make sure he has this," she chirped as the youth began to laugh. "He won't be able to love what he does unless he has one."

A person with short hair and a brusque voice said, "C'mon now, Katyusha, don't be stupid—he's a stupid scarecrow, for god's sake. He'll stand out there whether he likes it or not, and he won't care either way, seeing how he's _straw_…."

"I think he has a point, Katyusha. Not much point, though it's a nice thought."

The girl blinked, the corners of her mouth turning down, and Ivan decided immediately that he did not like the look on her at all. "But Papa, aren't you the one who says that we should put our hearts into everything we do? How can the scarecrow do that if he doesn't have a heart?"

Jeers and giggles turned to coos and blessings of the little one's heart. The man with the straw hat's eyes twinkled, and he scooped up the white-haired little girl and gave her a kiss as some boys carefully carried Ivan out, though one of them accidentally whacked his face against the door.

They carried him out deep into a sea of swaying green and yellow stalks, and planted the pole Ivan's frame rested upon into the dark ground, which smelled earthy and of leaves. Then, the boys wandered away, and Ivan was alone.

For the longest time, he just idly observed the stalks around him, and vaguely wondered what sort of purpose he had being there, now that he had form. His attention crawled to the dark skyline above him, and immediately the scarecrow had been spellbound.

So many specks of twinkling light, like the gleam of brightness in the old farmer's eyes as he looked upon his daughter with a expression that was soft like some of the voices Ivan had heard, like Katyusha's sweet one. Ivan tried and tried and tried to move, but he remained firmly motionless, even as he longed to pluck out one of the many dots in the heavens and plant some in his own button eyes. How would it feel to have them there?

Ivan was so deep in thought, he didn't hear the plodding of little footsteps coming from behind him. He was quite startled when little Katyusha popped out of the darkness before him, smiling slightly.

"I brought you this," she offered shyly, standing on tiptoe and raising up a row of pink cloth towards him. Ivan said nothing. Katyusha began hopping up and down, trying to drape it around his neck. As she was nowhere near tall enough, she just settled for tossing up one end of the pink scarf around Ivan's neck and awkwardly circling the scarecrow like she would a maypole, wrapping the cloth around his shoulders.

"It's old, but I made it myself and it should keep you warm tonight," she said proudly, shivering slightly in the cool night air. "And no one did give you a name, did they? Well, I think I might as well will. I have a little cow named Bessie," she added, folding her arms behind her back and rocking back and forth, admiring the night sky. Ivan looked at her. "If it were a male cow, I would've liked to name him Ivan. Ivan is a good name. Your name will be Ivan from now on."

"Katyusha!" someone called out faintly from the distance. "Katyusha, blast it, you're going to catch cold if the wolves don't catch you first! _Now get inside_!" With a strangled yelp and a fearful glance around herself, Katyusha took off running towards the house, briefly turning her head to call out, "Good night, Ivan, good night!"

The scarecrow watched her go, feeling a strange sense of emptiness in his chest, as if he had somehow lost some of his body's straw. He saw that he had lost none and was very confused. He wished Katyusha would come back and talk to him, though he doubted it would happen.

_'I have a name,'_ he thought, marveling silently. _'My name is Ivan.'_

But what did it mean he should _do_, exactly? What was expected of him? When would he be able to be like Katyusha and run in cool grass with bare feet? When would he be able to talk to Katyusha and thank her for the colossally long scarf, which was now fluttering in the breeze behind himself?

Later on, Ivan understood that the scarf was to be his first gift. It would not be his last.


	2. Visitor

~*oOo*~

The sky slowly began to change hues as Ivan continued to stand there, alone amongst the long stalks. Then, the darkness began to lighten somewhat, turned gray, as if diluted by water. Gray became a weak white, and color slowly began to sweep in, soaking into the sky like warmth. Ivan watched, memorized as the faintest of pinks (like his scarf!) appeared, and grew. The tip of something gold began to grow stronger and stronger, and Ivan was dazzled as it became red, violet, so many shades of yellow and cream and light. A series of crows broke out over the many little houses and barns adjacent to the fields Ivan stood in.

It was stunning, glorious, and Ivan never wanted it to end. But eventually, the magnificent display started to die away, and Ivan's attention wandered to the great many people who started wandering into the fields, talking amongst themselves and carrying all sorts of things. Ivan hoped that perhaps someone might talk to him and tell him what to do, but everyone ignored him. Instead, they all turned their attention to the greenery around Ivan, deftly focused, looking under leaves and pulling off tiny creatures they found, squashing them underneath their feet.

The people seemed wholly fascinated by the green leaves, and after awhile, as light began to flood the world and the green became bright and the sky blue, Ivan began to wonder what the great appeal of the greenery was. It was certainly beautiful to look at, but the scarecrow found the blue sky above him to be even more memorizing, full of creatures that rushed past.

They did not look at all like the humans on the ground—they were much smaller, and zipping through the air! Instead of arms, they had wings, and Ivan wondered why humans had arms instead. It seemed like such a dreadful waste, and when he realized he too had arms instead of wings, he felt somewhat sorry for himself.

But he supposed arms were rather nice, provided one could actually use them. He wished someone would make his arms move. But everyone was busily moving their arms, usually in rhythmic motions as they spread things on the Earth, watered it, plucked leaves over and over again, raked it. They honestly seemed obsessed with the soil, as if it were their lifeline. Getting bored, Ivan looked away.

There were pastures nearby dotted with pretty colors, and he wondered if Katyusha and her pet calf might be there, though it was too far away for Ivan to see very clearly.

He watched the people at work, for hours on end. Little children about Katyusha's size wandered around the dark soil, offering some of the taller people drinks. As people reached for the dipper and slurped generous amounts of water, droplets fell back into the bucket, gleaming like liquid sunshine. Ivan longed to try it himself.

It seemed as if the people were slowly melting in the sunlight, little drops of perspiration gleaming on their brows as they wrestled with the Earth, tugging out bits of greenery they seemed to feel did not belong and planting new stalks.

As people worked, they began to sing the old songs of the village, and Ivan desperately longed to sing along, but he did not know the words, nor did he talk. He continued to wait for someone to notice him and tell him how he could move alongside the others.

People wandered on and off the fields, more two-legs coming forward to replace and relieve them. Some of the women brought little tins, which were filled with things that the farmers stuffed inside of their mouths. _So humans need filling too?_ He wondered why they did not eat hay. He wondered why they wanted to eat more when they already looked reasonably sturdy and filled out. Did they do this often, like with the water? Everyone had taken a swig from the buckets at some point in the day.

The great big orb in the sky slowly began to sink again, but instead of slinking back towards the East, it crept towards the West. People began slinking back towards the little houses, whose windows once again were filling up with light. Ivan wondered if perhaps that was where the sun went when the great moon appeared in the sky again; perhaps people broke it down and shared it so that they could have light in their homes.

The next day was much like the first had been. Ivan waited for someone to notice him, but they all worked around him again, and he was forgotten.

This happened again.

And again.

And again.

_'Perhaps this is how humans are born—they are clipped out of material and filled with straw before they are taken out to the fields to grow for a few days,' _Ivan thought one day._ 'Then one day, they are given limbs that move.'_

It seemed a fairly logical conjecture for Ivan, and he tried with every fiber of his being to move, but he still remained hopelessly immobile against the old post. Although he begged his body to move until his mind was exhausted, he had not budged an inch, though his pink scarf still flapped in the wind.

On the sixth day, someone at last noticed Ivan again. He leaned on the long stick with which he'd been raking the Earth with and considered the scarecrow with a raised eyebrow. "Huh. I guess they finally built a new scarecrow…Scary lookin' fellow, isn't he, Toris?"

A brown-haired young man looked up from his work. "Hmm? Oh, I suppose so. Hopefully he should help keep the birds away from this sector's corn crop….." He pulled a small cob out of the green stalks, giving it a troubled look. "Those nasty wretches have been pecking at these again…" The blonde boy…or was it girl? Ivan could not tell—scoffed.

"He should. He's certainly freaky looking enough, amirite? Ugggggllllyyyyy," the green-eyed male sang, tweaking Ivan's nose. The scarecrow wondered how much the girly man would like to have his body torn into sections. "Seriously."

The next day passed, but for whatever reason, no one came to the fields. But the day after, everyone resumed their work, and the scarecrow stood there like a lost shadow, never noticed or spoken about again. It was if he simply did not exist.

Bit by bit, the stalks around Ivan began to grow. As they did, so did the villagers' excitement. They spoke constantly of harvest, harvest—_what did that even mean_?—and of the Harvest Moon Festival that would be coming soon. Sly-eyed boys and lads with shy voices began speaking of the girls they hoped to steal kisses from. Ivan wished desperately someone would tell him what a kiss was. Was it something you wore? Like a button or a rag?

Ivan's hopes that he would be able to move from his post began to fade as the Autumn leaves began to tumble and the edges of his precious scarf became ragged from the increase of wind and rain. Through it all, Ivan just stood there, alone as he watched groups of people rush into their homes, where so much light shone, even in the darkest of nights. As day after day passed with his mind bullying his body to move with no results, a new, terrible idea began to creep up on Ivan:

_He was not meant to move, and never would. _

One evening, after the farmers had stripped the fields of their fruit and took it all away in large baskets, Ivan heard the strangest of noises coming from the town's most colossal barn. It was lively and beautiful all it once, singing to a rhythm without making any words at all. Ivan loved the sound. He drank it up as it wafted faintly to the fields. If he could move, he would have been stepping in time to the delicious music.

Laughter. By now, Ivan associated laughter with joy—and there was a great deal of laughing coming from the town. He heard a sea of hands clapping and cheerful roars break out, and the plush heart that Katyusha had given him twinged. It was not altogether a bad feeling, but it made Ivan feel tremendously sad. He longed to laugh like everyone else, belong like everyone else, be accepted and _needed_ among everyone else.

The man who oversaw the farmers so regularly shouted out passionately that it was by the strength of everyone's backs and hearts that the villagers and their children got to eat. Ivan understood that what grew around him was food, and everyone desperately needed it if they wanted to make merry and have beautiful music, tunes that would make Ivan smile inside and ballads so tremendously sad that it felt like his heart would tumble out of his chest. Music was throbbing, tremendous, so compelling. Ivan came to the conclusion that the music was life, the product everyone worked an entire year for.

When the green grass began to yellow and all the leaves came off the trees, white flakes began to drift down from the gray, gray sky. Ivan just watched, transfixed and cold, missing the bright yellow flowers that grew beside the fields and the sounds of laughter and people singing.

He so rarely saw anyone anymore. No one wanted to come to the fields anymore, because humans hated the white frost that carpeted the world. Soon enough, Ivan came to hate it as well.

After the piles of white began to grow, some farmer came by and dragged Ivan to his barn, unceremoniously dumping him into some dark corner full of silvery little webs that spiders wove. Ivan's dead button eyes stared at nothing in a sleepless dream until someone thrust the barn doors and carried him out, the weak sunshine overwhelming him.

He felt relieved as someone planted him into the earth again, a wistful, painful sort of gladness as he watched farmers placing very small pebbles into the Earth, glowering up ahead at the circling birds.

Ivan was needed again.

~*oOo*~

And so it was that Ivan stood amongst the crops always, protecting the farmers' labor from the birds that flew overhead, squawking and cawing amongst themselves. The scarecrow would have dearly loved to know what they were saying, but although he strained whatever ears he had, he never made out more than hoarse squeaks and cries.

But he was a scarecrow, and he stood out in the fields, rain or shine, until harvest time came and he was tucked away into a barn for use next year. There he lay against a pile of his own material, terribly cold and immobile into dusty, mothball-infested darkness.

As the years went by, he grew more and more eager for means to amuse himself, as his life was almost insufferably boring. He'd learned how to count by listening to farmers filling baskets in an effort to fill their 'tax quota,' but counting clouds and seeds and people grew dull after a short period of time.

Ivan watched the occasional bird that landed, watched how angrily the farmers would chase them off. He watched spiders weave their webs around him and on him and the occasional butterfly drift by, light and fluttery and sweet. He counted the busy little black specks that hurriedly marched in the dust below him, and at night, he observed the heavens, looked for falling dashes of light the farmers had called falling stars.

The children frolicked around the fields. Ivan's faded violet eyes watched them sadlly. How fun would it be to join them! They were so much merrier than the older ones, their footsteps light and carefree instead of heavy and weary. Maybe, Ivan thought, when the little people grew up into big people, their hearts died within them.

It was tremendously lonely. But he was resigned to his fate. Katyusha never returned to see him, although he did catch a glimpse of her seasons ago. The little girl had turned into a young woman, beautiful, well-endowed, and dressed in a trailing gown of blue, accompanied by a strong, proud-looking man. Ivan knew enough of the villagers' customs by now that he knew Katyusha had wedded. He desperately wished she had looked his way, but though he strained his purple eyes as much as he could, Katyusha remained ignorant to him, washed away in the happiness that made her radiate so.

The pink scarf had long since lost its color, and had faded under many nights of rain and many days of hot sunshine. It was now a sandy, dirty beige. But it still hung around his shoulders. Ivan was grateful for that much.

One fine summer's day, Ivan found himself dozing in and out of consciousness alone in the great corn fields. Until he began to hear a peculiar rustling sound from somewhere nearby—like corn stalks being rustled in a great hurry—accompanied by the sound of little running

The people in the villages worked on a peculiar timeline—for six days, they would either seed, weed, or harvest—and then, for one day, there would be stillness in the fields. A tremendous ringing sound from the village's tallest building seemed to beckon everyone to it, near and far. Today had been such a morning. Who would be in the fields today?

The rustling sound became louder, and Ivan began hearing a panting sound. A dog, perhaps? He fervently hoped not; the little wretches occasionally wandered out here to chew on Ivan's legs.

Suddenly, a little yellow head popped out of the greenery, and for a moment Ivan thought that an ear of corn or a sunflower had immediately blossomed then and there in front of him. But no; it was a very small boy with a fine crop of yellow hair. His face was rosy, gleaming underneath the sunlight, and he was glancing nervously behind himself. The child hurried forward, only to hit the scarecrow and fall back on the dusty ground with a surprised "Oof!"

"H-hello!" he stammered, rubbing at his eyes. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was here! Please don't tell 'em I'm…._oh_." His bright blue eyes fell on Ivan for the first time, running up and down. "Oh. You scared me, scarecrow. Thought I was gonna be in trouble for a second 'ere."

Ivan just gazed at him with his violet button eyes as the child ran a hand over his rough, timeworn face curiously. Who since Katyusha had ever touched him so?

But Alfred drew his attention back. "You won't tell on me if I hide here, will you?" squeaked the boy, and Ivan longed to respond '_No, of course not, even if I could I would never,'_ but of course he just lay against his frame, same as always.

"They're chasin' me," the young boy said sadly, as if Ivan had been waiting for an explanation as to why he had appeared. He dropped down to his knees and hugged them, rocking back and forth. "My friends. Well, my _sort of_ friends. They don't like to let me play ball with them because they think I think I'm better than anyone else. I don't!" he insisted angrily. "I'm a hero, is all. I'm gonna be a hero one day like in the old stories and help everyone all the time! But they laughed at me." He shook his head in disgust, and absentmindedly poked at Ivan's old boot.

"I wonder if gets boring, standing around all day. I don't think I'd like it very much. See, I'm just a water boy right now," explained Alfred cheerfully. "So I bring buckets of water out to anyone who needs a drink in the fields. Makes me feel important, even if the pails make my arms hurt!" he said proudly, puffing out his little chest. "But everyone's always telling me 'do this, Alfred,' and 'fetch that, Alfred,' and 'get out of the way, Alfred,' and sometimes the village kids pick on me coz I'm the headman's son but I do lotsa work. Papa says that I should work hard though, else I'll never be a good headman. I don't mind. But they pick on my brother, too," admitted the boy unhappily, picking up a twig and drawing lines in the dirt, chin in hand.

"His name's Mattie. Well, Matthew. Just because he gets sick a lot and has to stay inside and do a lot of women's work, he don't have many friends and people aren't nice to him. It's not girl's work!" he insisted, looking up into Ivan's face with a small frown, as if Ivan had claimed otherwise. "He _likes_ doing the stitching…and he's really very good at it, better 'en I could ever be. He's the one who sewed this neat patch on my knee when I ripped it," he added, pointing to the pink triangle over his pant legs.

"But the village boys are mean and pick on him whenever he goes outside, so he runs back in crying! I go to beat them up, but they just bring a lot more children and gang up on me! Then I have to run," Alfred said sadly, picking up a handful of dirt and squeezing it between his fingers.

"And if they catch me, boy, then I'm in for it. They all have rocks in their pockets and they hurl 'em at me…

"Alfred, where are you?" a voice distantly barked. The boy shivered and crouched underneath Ivan's shadow as someone else called out, not too far away, "Yeah, come out, you big dumb jerk, then we can beat you up AND your crybaby brother!" Alfred tensed, and he staggered to his feet, his dirty fists raised, face tight with anger.

_'Don't do it,'_ thought Ivan desperately, longing more than ever to move, to be able to speak! '_It isn't worth it! They will hurt you. Stay here where they will not find you!'_

"I'll get you for that," Alfred growled underneath his breath, racing off into the brush.

And so, Ivan was alone again, the damp, mildewed heart in his chest aching tremendously as he heard Alfred's cries echo into the air, birds taking fright and flying away, squawking in indignation.

~*oOo*~

Ivan's mind trembled as he listened to the unmistakable sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and the cries of pain Alfred was letting out somewhere in the distance. After awhile, a group of smug-looking children wandered away from the fields, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Alfred was not among their number.

The scarecrow's cloth heart tumbled out of his chest again and the creature stared at it in dismay before his gaze turned to the edges of the fields again, waiting for Alfred to come out. After several long, unbearable minutes, Ivan caught a glimpse of gold emerging from the crops and Alfred Jones slowly maneuvered his way free, walking very slowly back to the stone hamlets, like a world-weary adult. He dragged one of his legs awkwardly, as if he were limping. Ivan imagined bruises blooming on his sunkissed skin, like so many dark flowers.

He burned with anger. Oh, how nice it would have been, to be able to inquire if the child was alright, to be able to carry him home! Or better yet…Ivan lay still and dumb against his wooden frame, but his mind raced all the same, imagination whirring. He imagined the bullies' mouths dropping, the stones they were carrying dropping, the cries they would make as they turned and dashed away. Ivan didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all children, so he imagined himself being so big and powerful no one dared try to fight, lest they provoke his wrath.

And Alfred would be happy. Happy and safe.

_ "Thank you, Ivan_," he'd say, after the scarecrow had formally introduced himself. _"Let's be friends from now on, okay_?" And Ivan would be happy. He wouldn't complain if he were still shoved into a barn during the long and lonely winters, just so long as Alfred would be waiting for him during the spring with that wide and charmingly gapped smile of his.

He prayed Alfred would return again tomorrow.


	3. Wish

**Urchin, do love triangles? Naaaah. ;) Dude, I'm such a sap for this trio (not together; I think that's just a little weird for my taste), which is funny because I hate essentially all love triangle plots in anything else. *Shrugs* **

~*oOo*~

But by the time the roosters' caws began to echo over the sleepy town, Ivan's hopes were quite diminished. The scarecrow stared aimlessly at the ground as the sky improved from a light gray to yellow, his tattered scarf fluttering sadly in the early morning breeze. His heart still lay on the ground, out of Ivan's reach.

He understood by now that humans needed a heart to live. Did the same apply to scarecrows? Could a human pull their hearts out of their chests and still survive? If so, Ivan had never seen them at it—he wondered what a human heart looked like. It was probably a beautiful, shining thing, not a makeshift fakery like his sad pincushion heart, which felt sick against the grubby dirt.

_If someone were to destroy my heart_, Ivan wondered dully, _Would I too come to an end?_ In a way, it would be a relief. There would be no company for him; a good scarecrow always stood alone.

The sounds of cattle mooing and fowl squawking and horses neighing began to break out, and soon enough the sounds of people began to break out: people scolding or laughing or hurrying through the streets, with somewhere to be and with someone expecting them. Ivan's heart did not beat anything but dust, but it was still cold with envy. He heard so many of the laborers complaining that there was too much to be done in the day, but Ivan would have given anything—_anything_, perhaps even his heart or his beloved scarf—for a day to walk with them, to have things to do, to be needed.

But the only place anyone needed or wanted him to be was in the fields.

The sound of farmers marching towards the fields with their normal tools and tins went almost completely unnoticed by Ivan, who was still transfixed in misery. Of _course_ Alfred wouldn't come back. Why would he? Ivan was less than a man, less than a doll. He was a faceless monster who could neither speak nor move, full of dry and moldy straw.

_You thought he was actually talking to_ **you?** Ivan asked himself scornfully as people began the planting, trading gossip amongst each other. _You? HAH! You had a mouse chewing on your foot just two days ago—you smelly, sorry thing! He was frightened, he needed to get his feelings out, and you just so happened to be there. You think he wants to see **you**, when there is his brother, when there must surely be some good-hearted children around to keep him company? You are a musty old scarecrow falling to bits! There's a cobweb on your arm, and your boots are frayed! You will be lucky if you see him one more time, when he walks through the cornfields with a wife and children at his side. You are ugly, you are a THING….._

This tirade went on as the sun continued to rise in the sky, transforming the reds, pinks, and golds into a pleasant deep blue, but Ivan didn't notice. People switched in and out much as they always did, and early afternoon crept on. The miserable scarecrow had just decided to close in on himself and return to his dreamless stupor when a peculiar sound caught his attention; a recurring splash-splash-splashing sound, accompanied by a series of low grunts.

At first, Ivan paid little attention, but then something thudded to the Earth, and water was sent splashing over his old boots. _Oh, but to be able to turn around!_

"Hi-hi," he heard someone say cheerfully, and Ivan's neglected heart on the ground abruptly went still.

Alfred appeared from behind him, looking flushed but happy, still limping slightly. While Ivan was very glad to see him, he felt _sick_ at the number of bruises that bloomed across his body, like so many dark flowers. _Oh, but to be able to chase terrified boys and **shake **them for hurting Alfred…_

But though Alfred was still sporting a number of some painful-looking scrapes and his rosy face was gleaming with sweat, he looked cheerful enough. "Hot today, huh? Ev'ryone's been wantin' a drink," he announced proudly, gesturing to the wooden dipper that hung around his neck by a bit of old rope. "The bucket's kinda heavy and I spill a lot, but nothin' I can't handle. Want some water?"

Ivan just stared at him. Alfred beamed.

"Course you do," he said simply, scooping some water from the large bucket into the dipper and filling it with a generous amount of water. He stood on tiptoe, but even that wasn't enough for him to reach Ivan, so the boy simply flung it in the scarecrow's face, nodding approvingly as water dripped down, soaking the scarecrow's coat. "There. Thas better, see?"

Ivan said nothing while water dripped down from his old button eyes. Alfred glanced down at the scarf the scarecrow wore around his neck and raised an eyebrow. "Hey, aren't you really hot in that?" He uncertainly reached for the tattered ends of the precious scarf. "I can get rid of that if you like, it looks really old…"

_No, don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you **dare…**_

Alfred's hands shied away from the faded cloth, and he cast the scarecrow a confused look before smiling. "Oh, well, I guess yer alright, if ya wear it every day," he said airly, tucking his hands behind his head and looking appreciatively at the sky, where larks were soaring overhead. "You know, I wonder what it'd be like ta—"

"Boy!" a man grunted nearby, sounding half-exasperated, half-amused. Alfred jumped. "If you gots time to be exchangin' pleasantries with sacks of straw, ya got time ta bring me some water! Get yer head outta the clouds!" Several farmers started to laugh. Alfred immediately grabbed the nearby bucket, grunting as he started to drag it with both hands.

"Yes sir, comin' now sir." He noticed Ivan's neglected heart and uncertainly scooped it up; Ivan winced as the small calloused fingers lightly ran over it, gently touching the bits that were falling apart. "Hey, is this yours?" Of course Ivan did not answer, so Alfred just slammed the heart into Ivan's straw-filled stomach. "All better. See you gotta go bye now!"

And with that, Alfred was gone, grunting with exertion as he heaved the bucket away, and Ivan watched with a heavy heart lodged in his gut, unexpected emotion wiping his mind blank.

~*oOo*~

When dusk came and the sky was painted a warm, bloody red, the farmers began to trudge back to the village. Ivan was gazing at the sinking orange circle in the sky when he heard the cornstalks begin to rustle again. Hope immediately ignited inside of it, and Ivan immediately imagined a pleasant warmth emanating from it, as if someone had slipped a hot coal inside of him.

"Hi-hi," he heard again, and Alfred emerged from the blooming cornstalks, looking tired but happy. "Papa said I did a good job today, so I get ta take tamorrah off," he said proudly, plopping back onto the hard ground with a sigh and opening the small tin in his hands. He helped himself to a piece of jam-covered bread, wolfing it down. "We even got dessert tonight. 'm so happy!" Alfred licked his fingers and beamed. "When we have suppah again, we're gonna have a nice biiiiiig fish!" he exclaimed, holding his hands as far apart as he could. "Coz I don't hafta work tamorrah, I'm gonna go fishin' and get da biggest fish you ever saw!"

Alfred held out his other piece of jam-covered bread out to Ivan. "Do scarecrows eat? I wish you did. Here—" He rose to his feet, wincing when he put weight on his injured limb, and stood on tiptoe, brushing the crust against Ivan's mouth, which was sewn shut. "Yummy, huh?" He took a bite and answered for the scarecrow. "Yum. Mama and Mattie's food is da best. I can't wait for jam makin' time again, even thought it takes forever and ever and ever ta do. Ya have to keep stirrin' the pot until yer arm falls off," he complained, scrunching up his face in a way Ivan thought was adorable. "But the berry pickin' and the mashing and da tastin' is da best part. Yum! But fish tomorrow," he added, looking up at the rose-colored clouds up ahead and smiling.

"One time, I got this big fish on my hook that were so big, it dragged me into the water! But I wrestled with it and I got it onta the bank!" Alfred hugged himself. "It was as big as me, with gold and silver scales! And it fought and thrashed around a lot! So slippery! But I won! And Mama and Papa were proud! Mattie and Lillie and I ate a whole lot! Lillie's my little sister," Alfred added, pulling a nearby ladybug off a leaf to examine it.

"She is very small and very quiet and just a baby and misses our big brother, who left for the capitol a long time ago to make his fortune as a…" Alfred's brow furrowed again, and he nibbled his lip, thinking carefully. "'Money lender?' Papa thinks it's a disgrace, so that's why I'm gonna be headman one day," he said sadly, helping himself to a tiny ear of corn and nibbling it. "Don't tell anyone I'm eatin' one of these, kay scarecrow? We're not s'posed to have one until Harvest Moon. I love Harvest Moon, do you? One year, when Mattie and I were real little, we ate a jar of jam under da table." Alfred held his stomach and made a face before giggling.

"Papa wanted to give us a spankin', but Mama said dat havin' to stay in bed while everyone else was havin' fun playin' games and dancing and eating was 'shiment enough." Alfred's blue eyes glowed. Ivan wished he could have them; he would have traded his button eyes for pieces of sky on his face anyday. "I love Mama. I told her bout you, and she was real surprised, cause she gave you the scarf and put a heart inya when she was very little! She didn't know you were still out here…."

Astonishment broke over the scarecrow. _Alfred is Katyusha's child? _He wondered. A flicker of amusement passed through him. _I suppose I shouldn't be surprised…_

Alfred babbled on. "You must be very old then, Mr. Scarecrow. I wish ya had a name. But coz you don't, I'll just call you scarecrow, Mr. Scarecrow."

_Ivan. My name is Ivan._

"—Mama said she gave you a name, only she forgot, but oh well. I don't know why I wanna talk to you, but…" Alfred shrugged helplessly, a bit of wistfulness creeping into his face. "I _feel_ you. Like you're listenin' to me. Do you think I'm a dummy? Most of the children here think I'm a dummy. I'm not," he added sternly.

_I could never think that. _

Alfred stood on tiptoe once again and brushed his hand over Ivan's elbow. "You're so tall! Like Papa, only I think YOU'RE taller! I wish I was dat tall. Dat would be nice. Mr. Scarecrow? I—"

_"Alfred!"_

A female voice broke out from the distance, and Alfred immediately froze, gulping slightly. _"Alfred, it's getting dark! Time to wash up and go to bed!"_

Alfred whined, his face crumpling. "Aw, Mama…" he turned to face Ivan with a sigh, scooping up his tin. "Don't wanna be 'lone in da dark. It's scary. I hope ya don't mind." He hugged Ivan's knee, and scurried off, pausing for a second to wave to Ivan before he cantered like a deer through the corn stalks. Eventually Ivan watched him reappear outside the fields, scurrying home and leaving Ivan alone underneath the stars.

~*oOo*~

Alfred didn't visit with Ivan every day, but just about. Now the days were different; Ivan now felt expectant, hopeful once again. He drank in Alfred's words as he blathered away, pleased to listen to childish ramblings about things he had never felt or seen: running barefoot through cool, dewy grass, finding a bear eating berries in the woods and running away screaming with your brother, watching barn cats give birth to kittens and wading through cool and dark watering holes and trying to catch little minnows.

In the fields, Alfred never gave him more than a word or two, because people were starting to talk. Nowadays, whenever Alfred entered the fields with his water-bucket, some of the farmers would call out things like: "Well hello, lad! Here to exchange pleasantries with the scarecrows?" and "You two must make such _learned _conversation, considering you're chatting with a sack of wood chippings." "At least yer talkin' with someone with equal brains as ya." People would howl in laughter and Alfred would dip his head, flushed but forcing himself to smile and look careless. Ivan's heart took on an unpleasant prickling, and a sense of heat had flowed into him, but it was not like the wonderful warmth he felt when Alfred stopped by in the early mornings and evenings. No, this was a blazing heat, one usually accompanied by thoughts of snapping someone's neck.

One evening, two Alfreds appeared through the growing corn stalks, much to Ivan's surprise and confusion. But on closer examination, he saw that the two were not quite the same; there was his Alfred, grass stains on his knees and one of his overall straps hanging off his shoulders, his skin tanned and rosy and his smile missing teeth. The other boy, who looked remarkably like Alfred, had eyes that were more purple than blue, skin that looked much paler, as if he didn't see sunshine very often, and seemed smaller, thinner than Alfred, though the two were the same height. While Alfred was the picture of health and confidence, Matthew—for that must be Matthew—seemed much more uncertain, shrunk in on himself, eager to hold Alfred's hand. His footing was clumsy and he shook, as if with cold.

Matthew frowned as Alfred lead him to Ivan. "This is your 'new friend?'" he asked skeptically, shaking his head even as Alfred happily bobbed his. "Alfred, you're silly."

"'m not," his twin argued, pouting slightly. "He's a real good listener. Not dat you aren't, Mattie," he added hastily, clasping his brother's bony shoulder. "But he can HEAR me. I know it! I feel it, and if no one else can, I have ta make sure he don't get lonely!"

Matthew just sighed before coughing slightly. "You've been listening to Arthur again."

Alfred scowled, though he flushed darkly. "Have not."

"Have too. That's why you slept out in the barn last night. Cause he probably told you another scary story." Matthew sank onto the ground, and for the first time, Ivan saw how much thinner Matthew was than his sweet Alfred. "Mama said dat there was no such thing as vampires. Arthur just wants to impress you, is all."

Alfred picked up a nearby stone and hurled it across the fields, sullenly watching as it disappeared into another row of corn.

"I don't like Arthur. He and his dumb Papa should go out of the village and not come back."

Matthew looked at him disapprovingly.

"Arthur's_ new_ in town, Alfred. And his Papa's just a…a strange lookin' man coz he's a bard. Arthur's probably just mimicking him. I bet he's very lonely and looking for attention." Alfred huffed and crossed his arms.

"Ya sound just like Mama," he said accusingly. "Artie's _mean_. Artie's weird and walks around in dat black cloak and follows me round everywhere and anywhere and tells me scary 'tories! I don't like Arthur! He can go away forever if he wants to!"

Matthew threw his hands up into the air. "Fine, but he's probably gonna be da only one who'll believe you when you say—"

The boy didn't finish. He started coughing again, only this time he did not stop. Ivan watched in confusion and growing concern as Matthew bent over, hacking repeatedly in an attempt to catch his breath. He started to wheeze, and Alfred's indignant look immediately turned to one of concern.

"Hey, are ya okay, Mattie?" he asked anxiously, thumping his weak brother on his shoulder. Matthew's face turned red as he continued to gasp like a fish. Alfred's eyes widened to the size of toadstools, and he immediately started shaking his brother, so hard Matthew's widening eyes rolled back and forth.

"Mattie? _Mattie!_" Alfred's voice improved to a scream, startling several stray birds and sending them flying into the air in a flurry of black plumage and shrill squawks. Ivan watched in dismay as Matthew doubled over, clutching at his chest, dark violet eyes wide and tearing in panic. Alfred immediately raced towards the house, and then doubled back towards his brother, tearing at his hair.

"Stop, Mattie! I'll find Mama or Papa! No, let's go back to da house!" He made for the stalks again, but then let out a moan of despair, pulling at his hair with little hands. "Acck, no, no, Papa said no runnin'….do I get water? Mattie, tell me what I do!" Alfred's blue eyes shimmered with tears before he whipped to face Ivan, still staring blankly at the entire scene. _"Tell me what I do!"_ he screamed again, and Ivan felt his heart break in his stomach.

_What can I do?_

"Can't," Matthew coughed out, a viscous fluid dribbling over his pale lips and hitting the grassy fields, "Can't breathe, _can't—"_

"I'll get water," said Alfred frantically, paling as Matthew fell onto his little knees. "And lotsa it, den I'll get Papa and ev'ryone else ta help. Don't worry, Mattie, just hang on—"

"I have water."

Above Matthew's coughing and the sheer amount of noise Alfred was making, Ivan had been so distracted that he neglected to notice another pair of feet swish-swish-swishing through the long stalks. But his gaze immediately fell on a small hooded head that was peeking out at the two brothers, chartreuse eyes fixed on Matthew, who was now choking on sobs.

"I have water," he said again, tentatively pointing to a wooden canteen around his waist. Alfred staggered towards him, his eyes looking too large for his face.

"Give it here," he begged. "Please Arthur, give it here. Mattie needs some."

Arthur lowered his hood, and Ivan got the chance to take a good look at the young boy, who was an inch or so shorter than Alfred, give or take. His brows were thick, unusually so for such a small child—and his eyes were a startling surprise, like dark olive leaves pressed against his face. While Alfred radiated a polished and healthy glow, even in his untidy state, Arthur looked much more….weatherbeaten, like Ivan. He'd seen his reflection in puddle enough times that his clothes were ragged, faded, threadbare, and that was precisely what Arthur's patched clothes reminded him of.

If he felt alarmed by seeing Matthew in such a state, he didn't seem to express it. Alfred was getting frantic.

"Pleeeeaassseee," he begged. "_C'mon,_ already!"

Arthur considered him for a moment, raising a thick brow.

"You have to play with me."

Alfred looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

_"What?"_

Arthur spoke again, his voice crisp and dry, as if he were not a boy at all, but a world weary adult used to giving orders, more so accustomed to them being obeyed.

"You have to apologize for what you said the other day," he grumbled, grabbing his canteen and holding it high as Alfred began to wrestle him for it. "That was mean and it made me sad. And you have to promise to play with me."

"You told me that vampires were gonna eat me if I didn't nail garlic on our door!" Alfred cried, scratching at Arthur's face. "And I got in big trouble fer that, too! Give me da water, Arthur!"

But even as Alfred scratched and tugged at Arthur's hands with all of his might, Arthur stubbornly hung on to the canteen, eyes flashing. This was not a child who was afraid of physical punishment.

"You play with your dumb brother," Arthur snapped. "Even if he's tiny and frail and is a ghoooost," he taunted, wincing as Alfred hit him round the head. "Why won't you play with me?"

Alfred's eyes wandered back to Matthew, who by now had begun to turn white, though his coughing spree began to ease somewhat. "Okay, okay, ya can have whatever ya want," he said tearfully, stamping his bare foot. "Are ya happy? I'm sorry. I'll play with ya. Just give him da water…."

Arthur stared at him, and then swiftly moved over to Matthew, pulling out the small stopper on the canteen and offering it to him. Alfred's twin took it with shaking hands, and immediately downed the contents, still hacking, sputtering even as he greedily gulped, a generous amount trickling out of the corners of his mouth, tears and sweat streaming into the mixture. Alfred watched, tears still oozing down his face. "'m sorry, 'm sorry," he muttered, and Ivan wanted nothing more than to console him. "I know ya weren't s'posed ta be out, I just wanted ya ta meet…." He choked on a sob and buried his face in his hands. Arthur looked at him, expression inscrutable. His eyes wandered from Alfred to Ivan, and a tiny frown creased his brow.

_What can I do? _Ivan asked himself again, even when Matthew's gasps for air began to subside somewhat, though he continued to try and clear his throat, with little success. Alfred wrung at his hands, normally world-conquering grin evaporated in lieu of a worried look. "Should I get someone?"

Arthur shrugged. "Either way, someone would have to carry him back home," he said softly. "Either we fetch someone to do that or we do it ourselves."

How lovely would it be to be able to do it himself_! _Ivan screamed and cursed inside of his prison, longing to reach out and help. But he was frozen.

"I can carry him!" Alfred knelt, and a swaying Matthew uncertainly leaned against his back and wrapped his arms around his neck. The young boy staggered to his feet, grunting slightly. Arthur wandered over to him.

"Hey, do you need help?"

Alfred glared at him. Arthur grinned smugly and took his hand. Alfred tried to tug it free. "You promised. Anything I want, so you have to introduce me to your parents as your new friend."

Ivan's heart burned as if the sun were directing all its force down upon it, cooking it in his stomach. Alfred growled but begrudgingly trudged through the corn, Arthur following closely after. Ivan caught a hint of a blissful smile from Arthur's face before he disappeared, though he didn't spare Ivan a suspicious glance as he left.

The scarecrow strained with all his might, but still no movement.

_I have to become human. _

Even if his limbs were only good for kindling, he wanted to be that boy's friend.

_I have to become human for Alfred. _

~*oOo*~

**You know, this seems like something IVAN would do…not Arthur. Huh. And Arthur's not an evil kid—just a little lonely and awkward. Criss-cross. **


	4. Lost

**Hello again, my dears! Hope you're still enjoying this storyline—things are about to get interesting! By the way, the note about the doll's faces is a bit of Senecan (Native American tribe) culture. Artie's not NA, but I thought it was pretty interesting, so I incorporated it. **

**FYI: Peppermint is great for you. Awesome hiccup cure. As for what Mattie has exactly, well, maybe you'll be able to piece it together by the end of this chapter. And in the original version of Snow White, the princess gets raped by seven men and dies. O_O Really, really creepy and sad stuff! Some of the original fairy tales are seriously messed up! **

**The lovely and Prussia Hyperkaoru made a fanart for this story! *Squeals* Thank you so much, darling. Check out the link on my page if you have time!**

**Sorry for the rant-fest. Reviewers forever must face my huggles, so beware. **

~*oOo*~

* * *

Much to Ivan's disappointment, it was a few days before Alfred came to see him again. He supposed he couldn't blame the boy—after all, he'd figured it was only a matter of time before Alfred dismissed Ivan as a lifeless bag of straw. But the idea of never seeing the boy again, of being thrown into a dusty storage room with several other cold, lifeless scarecrows cut into him like a rusty scapel. Not when he'd finally tasted company that actually acknowledged his existence or his consciousness.

He was therefore delighted when one sunny Sunday afternoon Alfred trudged through the fields towards him, smiling ruefully. Much to Ivan's surprise (and admitted displeasure), Arthur Kirkland was trailing after him in his dusty old cloak.

"Hi-hi," the blue-eyed boy chimed as he approached Ivan. Ivan stared down at him, mute as always. "Sorry I haven't been ta visit, Mistah Scarecrow. Mattie's…." He fidgeted and gulped, turning his shiny eyes to the ground. For an absolutely awful moment, Ivan wondered whether the boy was going to cry, but soon Alfred was looking back up at him with a small smile. "Mattie's been in bed for da last couple days, so I've been lookin' afta him. I got in trouble fer bringin' him out here though," he added, lifting his shirt and turning around. Ivan mentally cringed when he saw three fading but still prominent pink lashes on his back. "Papa gave me a hidin' cause I brought Mattie out here when I shouldn't have. Den he stopped coz Mama asked him to. Mattie's gonna be fine, though," he added quickly. "The doctah said that he'll be right as rain very soon."

_I'm sorry._ Why was Ivan apologizing? He had done nothing. _Of course you didn't, you hapless idiot,_ he snarled to himself. _You can't DO anything but look on when Alfred's brother can't breathe._ Unnerving as Arthur Kirkland looked or however Ivan might dislike him, at least he could be of some help.

Arthur had been scrutinizing the scarecrow. Now, he scowled. "You should never put a face on a doll."

Face still frozen, Ivan nonetheless seethed and Alfred huffed comically. "Hey Mistah Scarecrow, this is Arthur," he said unnecessarily, clapping the grudging-looking boy on the shoulder. "He's a sourpuss but he means well I think even if he's a jerk sometimes. He knows where ta find peppahmint leaves which Mama makes inta tea for Mattie and makes him cough less." He turned to the woebegone child, hands on his hips. "And Mistah Scarecrow's _not_ a doll."

Arthur looked slightly pacified, but only by a little bit. "Same difference. Where I come from, putting a face on anything that looks like a human is very unlucky. If you lived in my old village, your little sister would never be able to have a doll like hers."

"Wha? Why not?"

Arthur's brow wrinkled. "Because that's an old ritual. If you put a face on a humanlike figurine of any sort—even on a snowman—you are basically inviting a spirit to come live inside it. And if you ever dropped the figure or pulled on its hair, you would hurt the ghost too and it would be angry. And then, they would bring bad luck to you and your house. So the dolls and scarecrows back home never had any faces."

Alfred raised an eyebrow and uneasily took a step back behind Arthur. "Are ya saying there's a ghost inside Mistah Scarecrow?" he squeaked, and Ivan recoiled in his mind, white hot panic dancing inside like sparks. _Oh, God, don't be scared of me._

Arthur shrugged, still staring intently at Ivan.

"I…don't know," he said uncertainly. "I was never sure if I believed in that or not, but this one…." He shook his head. "I feel _something_ here, and it's…" The boy shook his head like a dog trying to rid itself of water. "_Strange_. And I don't think I like it."

Alfred blinked. "Ya feel somethin' too? Den I'm not alone!" he crowed, turning a shining face to Ivan. The scarecrow wondered how Alfred's hair seemed to match the waving seas of grain off in the distance. "Ya see, Mistah Scarecrow, someone else thinks you're in dere too! 'm not nuts!"

"I never said it was a good thing."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "But it _is_. He can listen ta me, and I'm happy 'round Mistah Scarecrow. When I first met him, it was like…." The boy threw his head back and thought carefully. "Uh….it was like bein' 'round someone I _knew_. It felt friendly and happy, like when Mama is cookin' or puttin' bandages on or singin' late at night when da fire's goin' and Papa's playin' fiddle."

The other boy looked at him for a moment. "My Papa used to play a wooden flute. It sounded nice. He carved one for me one Noel and told me he would teach me how to play, but he never did."

"Don't he play no more?"

"Doesn't he play anymore,'" Arthur corrected, getting down on his knees and drawing strange shapes in the dirt. "No."

Alfred squat down beside him. "How come?"

The other boy shrugged. Then, because Alfred showed signs of wanting to ask why, he said quickly:

"Do you want to try something neat?"

~*oOo*~

"Are ya SURE dis is gonna work?"

"Trust me."

Alfred and Arthur had run off to gather a bundle of strange items, and with a great deal of difficulty had pulled Ivan from his post. Now he was lying flat on his back against the ground, staring at a V of geese soaring overhead in the sky. _Autumn's coming_, he mused to himself as his gaze flickered back to the two boys kneeling next to him.

Stick in hand, Arthur was drawing what appeared to be a messy circle around Ivan. Every so often he would drop what appeared to be a toadstool or a herb of some kind at a certain point, though Ivan could only partially see what was going on. Alfred was at Ivan's feet, staring into his face hopefully.

"So, this will really make him come alive?"

Ivan's faint musings died immediately. Arthur approached the other boy, took a look at his tracing job, and nodded approvingly.

"I think so. The spell I know goes something like this: _'A bit of lavender, a sprig of Rue, a bolt from the heavens, from the stormy blue.'_ I think the last line means that we have to wait for lightning to strike the scarecrow."

Alfred scrunched up his nose. "Ouch. Won't that hurt him?"

"Maybe. I'm not really sure. I've never tried this before. A lot of the old magicians used to use a lot of lightning whenever they could get it."

Alfred looked at Ivan for a long time before he sank down to the ground again, hugging his knees. He glanced up at the sky again.

"Look like rain yet?"

"Not yet. Give it a few seconds."

They waited, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. Hope diluted, Ivan's thought pattern returned and he went back to gazing at Alfred, who was kicking his feet back and forth. "Ya know lots n lots about dis kinda stuff, dontcha? And ya talk all fancy. Like Basch did, before he went away." Alfred smiled sadly. Arthur glanced at him.

"Who's Basch?"

"My big brother. He were s'posed to be next village headman, but he said he didn't wanna spend his life here no more one day." Alfred reached out for Ivan's large hand and turned it over in his own. "He listened to da traders dat come ev'ry year 'bout life in da city, so he went off one year to be a soldier and nevah came back. He and Papa yelled at each other a lot 'fore he said goodbye, and so now I'm gonna be next village headman." He sighed. "Mama misses him a lot, but Basch doesn't like Papa, so he writes letters steada visitin'. Now he's a money lender in the big cities, near da capitol far far away. But now ya have ta tell me somethin' 'bout you, if dat's okay. Where's yer Mama?"

Arthur shrugged, looking for the first time a little uncomfortable.

"…I suppose. Mother was a healer and a schoolteacher back in our village. Father was a bard at the tavern. Mama…." His voice cracked and he looked away. Looking worried, Alfred made to get up.

"Artie?"

"Sod off, I'm fine!" The little boy snapped, turning around to give Alfred an angry look. Forgotten Ivan would have loved to kick him for that. "She died a few years ago giving birth to my little brother, who died too."

He took a good look at Alfred and started, anger giving way to astonishment. "You're not _crying_, are you?"

Alfred swallowed. "N-no! Heroes nevah cry! I'm real sorry though," he said miserably, burying his face in his tiny hands. Arthur continued to gawk at him as if he'd never seen anything quite like Alfred before. "Do you miss her much?"

"I don't remember much about her other than the fact that she taught me my letters and had soft hands," hr said quietly, almost to himself. "Papa just sort of…went away after Mama died. He didn't abandon me!" he added angrily. "No. He just drank a lot and his stories weren't so good and finally our village had enough and told Father to settle down and get a real trade or to get out. We've been traveling ever since. I do the cooking," he added proudly, pulling something out of a bundle of rags that sat next to Alfred's. He pulled out a tiny rock and presented it to Alfred, and it took Ivan a moment to realize that it wasn't a stone, but a biscuit. Alfred gulped.

"Um…is this…."

"Yes!" said Arthur merrily. "I made it this morning. Would you like to try it?"

"I…."

Alfred looked around him for a brief second, as if looking for someone to help. At last, he sighed and took a tiny nibble. Judging by the wince, it must have tasted nearly as badly as it looked, but Alfred kept chewing. It sounded like he had a mouthful of granite in his mouth.

"How is it?" Arthur asked anxiously. Alfred forced a smile.

"G-good! Really good!" Placing the half-eaten chunk of what once might have been food in his lap, Alfred reached for his own lunch and pulled out a biscuit that looked significantly tastier than Arthur's and placed it in Arthur's dirty hands. "Here. Mama made this. It's got jam on da inside."

The child stared at the food, gave it a suspicious sniff, and cautiously bit into it. A second later, the boy was wolfing it down with a gusto Ivan had normally only ever seen come from Alfred. His green eyes were glittering with tears.

Alfred awkwardly cleared his throat and looked away.

"Artie…"

Wiping his messy mouth, the green-eyed boy gave him a puzzled look, lifting a heavy eyebrow.

"My name's Arthur."

"But I wanna call you Artie."

"That's a stupid name. My name's Arthur."

"Matthew doesn't care if I call 'im Mattie."

The smallest hint of a smile. "….okay. You can call me Artie." He turned his gaze back to Ivan. "I don't know if it will rain anytime soon. Maybe we should just put him back up for right now. I don't really want to bring him to life anyway."

Alfred looked bitterly disappointed.

"Isn't dere any other way?" he asked, wringing his hands and reluctantly finishing off his badly burned food. "In Snow White, Mama said dat da Princess came back ta life when—"

"—that never really happened," said Arthur firmly. "My Papa likes to tell the original story, and that's when—"

Alfred squealed and planted his hands over his head. "Lalalalalalala, I can't hear ya, I can't hear ya, lalalala!" he sang. "Fine then, da princess that made a witch mad and took a nap fer a hundred years—_she_ woke up!"

"Only after she was kissed by a Prince. And your scarecrow might be alive, but maybe he's not asleep. Or maybe he just doesn't _want_ to move around us and doesn't like you because you disturb his peace."

_Think again, bush-brows._ Just when he'd been feeling sorry for the boy, too.

Alfred's little brow furrowed.

"No. I dun think dat's it at all. Uh, 'm not a prince, Mistah Scarecrow, but I'm a hero, so dat might do the trick." He bent down and kissed Ivan's sunbleached, straw forehead and pulled back, eager expression falling to disillusionment. "Aww. Didn't work."

Ivan just lay in the dirt, his still threadbare heart feeling dangerously close to soaring out of his body into the sky and over the great mountains that bordered the village in the distance, into the mist and lost forever.

But his attention was rudely re-accosted when Alfred squawked and yanked around, hands flying to his head. A small stone bounced to the ground, and the joy booming in Ivan's heart abruptly gave way for a still dread. _Oh, no._ Not them again.

But sure enough, atall, stocky boy with dark hair stepped out from behind the stalks, smirking considerably. "Well, now. You wooing scarecrows as well as talkin' to them now?"

Several other boys started sidling around them, looking smug. Many were giggling. Arthur uneasily inched over to Alfred's side, face stretched in a prominent frown. Alfred scowled at the boy who stood in front of them, his arms crossed.

"Isamel, I am not!" he protested. "We're tryin' to bring Mr. Scarecrow to life."

Arthur groaned and buried his faces in his hands as all at once the boys started roaring with laughter. "Wow. Yer a witch as well a crazy person as well as a headman's brat. And here I thought you were just serenading old Bushy Brows out here."

More laughter. Arthur's face burned and he looked down, his tiny fists shaking.

"I bet they're planning on gettin' married," one of them crowed. "Like the sinners you are. My Papa says dat talkin' to scarecrows is scary, unnatural stuff. He says dat if ya keep it up, people'll start thinkin' yer involved in witchcraft instead of just stupid."

"Aaah, I say he's just stupid, like his Pa," Ismael boasted. Face red, Alfred leapt forward with a shriek of rage, and Arthur seized him by the wrists, trying to hold the struggling boy back. Judging by the way the smaller boy's feet dragged in the dust, the effort was taking all he had. "Say that again, ya big ugly creep, I dare ya!"

Ivan felt his heart constrict with helplessness. _Oh, God, why do people have to treat each other this way?_

It…whatever_ it_ was…grew to an energy, the energy to a burn, and soon enough Ivan swore that the sun was glaring down into his straw chest where his heart nestled, becoming so warm it threatened to burn him away. He pleaded his usual wish for his limbs to move, but as always, nothing.

He was worse than nothing.

Some of the boys were giving the tanned boy a surprised look, but Ismael just shrugged. "What? It's true, ain't it? Pa says dat Matthew's gonna die any day now and it's all the fault of your big stupid Pa."

The burn was unbearable. How good would it be to shake him, shake him hard until Ismael was just a terrified, sorry mass of twigs? On Ivan's face there remained a blank look, but his mind danced with murderous intent like a flames in a bonfire.

"I'll kill ya!" Alfred screamed, so loudly that several birds in the field startled and took off. Arthur threw his arms around Alfred's waist and tried to hold him fast, but the boy just dragged his way over to Ismael, fist soaring towards the boy's big nose. Ismael lazily caught it and sent both Arthur and Alfred flying to the ground in a cloud of dust.

"Owww!"

"Ackk!"

Breathing heavily, Alfred staggered to his feet and made to strike out at Ismael again, but the boy sent him sprawling back with a well-aimed kick. Ivan smiled and imagined the rats and snakes farmers would sometimes discover in the fields and swiftly decapitate with their instruments. "Matthew was a tiny blue baby and if yer Pa had any decency in 'im, why, he would have taken 'im out back and shot 'im. Everyone says so, even if they don't say it 'round yer Pa. My Pa shoulda been headman."

Tiny chest heaving, Alfred flew at Ismael with a sea of fists, but again he was knocked down, this time hard. Arthur immediately grabbed his stunned-looking companion by the shoulders, face white as death.

"Alfred! Let's get out of—"

"At least my Papa don't look like you, like a horse kicked him in da face!" Alfred cried out, his dirty, tearstained face trembling with rage. All the pride drained out of Ismael's face, replaced by a very ugly look. He cracked one of his knuckles, and a few of the other boys hastily followed suit.

"Ya know, I think you have a few teeth you could do without," he growled. Alfred scoffed.

"Artie and I can take you guys!" he retorted angrily. Arthur just groaned, his expression not nearly so promising.

"You got you," Ismael drawled. "A skinny chicken in rags, and a scarecrow. Yeah. I'm real scared."

Arthur swallowed, looked around, and grabbed the stick he'd been playing with earlier. "Go away," he warned, extending the stick in Ismael's direction. "Or I'll complete my magic ritual and call my pets down on you."

"He's just makin' up trash," one of the boys barked. "I say we take out one of dose ugly green eyes and—"

"Oh, but you wouldn't want to do that," Arthur said lightly, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "You see, just now, I put a magic spell on Alfred, and if you touch him again, why, my familiar will come and you'll be cursed."

Still clutching at his injured side, Alfred sent a flabbergasted look in Arthur's direction. Ismael snickered, although he sounded a little less sure of himself.

"Witchcraft. Ain't no witches 'round here, round good and decent folk."

"Oh, really?" Arthur sang, chuckling to himself. "Do you think a decent witch is going to let herself be caught by a bunch of big, dumb, smelly farmers?"

Ismael growled and the ring of boys stepped closer, but out of nowhere a small black cat darted into the clearing, racing off into the threshes. Ivan saw the village cats here every now and again.

Arthur looked slightly taken aback, but he chuckled. "You see? A warning."

One of the fellows lost his head completely. "It's a sign!" he shrieked before running off. "Black cats are bad luck—everyone knows that!"

"Stoppit," growled one of the boys, sidling "Shut up right now, or we'll feed you to—"

"If you harm a hair on my or Alfred's head, a great, terrible thing will happen to you. You will never find a wife with a pretty face or a pure heart," Arthur sang, and Ivan wondered at how such a small boy could manage to smile in such a horrible and frightening manner. "Your toenails will all start to turn green," he hissed, with all the skill of a well-trained storyteller. "Greener than my eyes. Then, they'll ooze pus and start to turn black. Then, they will all fall off, one by one." He laughed. "And _then_, the curse really gets fun."

"W-why, what happens next?" asked one small boy. Ismael sent him a withering look. Arthur snickered.

"After that, your hair will turn white and you'll go bald. Then, the beasts will come to get you. They will claw themselves out of the last circle of hell and burst through the ground and come to drag you back with them. But some are like St. Nicholas, and come down your chimney, covered with ashes. Only they don't leave toys or sweetmeats. They leave your family members drowned in the cooking pot.

"They'll eat your old," he insisted. "Because they're bony and crunchy. They'll eat your young, because they're tender. Do you know how much a monster would love to eat one of you? Young, soft, sweet flesh—they would enjoy eating you the way you enjoy eating a young steer. And out of your skin, they'll cover their dark bibles…."

"Stop it!" cried a boy, "Shut da hell up, you freak!"

But Arthur was not done goading them. "They eat your eyes, and they eat your nose…"

Ismael looked about ready to be sick. He turned abruptly. "C'mon, fellows, let's go back. I ain't gonna stay here with some insane freaks and catch their sickness." Then, he ran like a deer back towards the huts, the boys flocking after him like a swarm of birds.

Arthur nodded importantly and turned to give his friend an encouraging smile, but much to his surprise found Alfred shaking with what looked like terror. "Alfred, I'm not really going to do those things," he tried to assure him. "I can't."

Crying out in panic, Alfred tore off and Arthur raced after him, wailing "Waaaiiiiitttt!" Ivan lay alone and forgotten on the ground, long until afternoon passed into evening, and spent the night staring at the stars.

~*oOo*~

He couldn't stop marveling over the miracle of it, wished so badly that he could touch his straw cheek where the precious thing still lay, almost tingling, like magic.

_A kiss. For me. _

As Ivan watched the farmers at work the next day, he kept marveling over the moment, turning it over and over again in his head. Although Ivan didn't have eyes he could open and close, had to see the world as it was every single second, he was only looking today, not truly seeing at all….

Over the years, he had seen many sorts of kisses, and now had a faint inkling that they were something good. Women kissed men as they handed them their lunches and told them not to work too hard. Beaming boys took blushing maidens into the fields during Harvest Moon to kiss. It was a tender caress, something that indicated 'I'm glad you're here,' or 'You are dear to me.'

_You are dear to me. _

Ivan wished he could cry. He couldn't quite understand it, but he'd heard children cry before and the sound seemed a perfect manifestation of what he felt: a horrible, piercing sadness. Except he was happy. He felt like crying, but with joy? The scarecrow was certain he had something wrong, mixed up in his concept of emotion. Humans did not cry when they were happy. Humans laughed. Alfred laughed. He cried when he was sad and Ivan never, ever wanted him to be sad, never wanted to see tears ooze down his face. He would wipe away every one.

If he could move, and if Alfred asked him for his heart or his scarf, Ivan would gladly hand them over, if only to have the boy smile at him, hold his hand and say, _'You're important to me.'_

That must be what love was. Over the years, Ivan had wondered at the many songs people sang about it, how they gossiped and told stories about it, laughed and sighed and wept over it. Now he believed he could understand.

He felt like flying. _I am dear to someone. Someone is glad I exist._ Again, he wanted to cry. A sweet sadness stole over him, and again he felt like laughter-crying, though the pain was a little more prominent over the joy heralding itself in his fabricated heart.

Even if he could never know the joys of being with Alfred, walking and talking with him under the sun, he was_ important_ to someone. That ought to make him happy, right? Perhaps he ought to avoid attempting to move altogether now; so many attempts led to failure and downright misery. It was just a recurring lesson in futility.

He was not meant to move and likely never would, not under his own power.

_I am worthless,_ Ivan thought wearily as Alfred waved goodbye for the day and headed back to his house with Arthur at his side. _I can do nothing for the one that is important to me. But I can be happy, because someone is kind enough to love me. _

~*oOo*~

Weeks went by. Alfred visited a little less during the mornings and evenings, more so during work. He seemed distracted and lacked his usual cheer. Ivan fretted about it at night, wondered why.

Then, one day, something seemed different in the fields.

The farmers were normally full of good cheer and bawdy jokes while they labored, but today everyone was rather quiet. Beyond the usual sounds of hoes scraping the earth or people tossing away weeds, no one said much of anything.

As the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, Ivan waited expectantly for Alfred to come bid him hello the way he did every day. But as the day grew longer, Ivan's hopes were being plagued with doubt and dread. _He's….he's not ill, is he?_

One of the farmers nearby stood up and wiped his shining brow.

"I can't believe this has happened," Toris said sadly, halfheartedly patting some fertilizer down against some wheat stalks with a shovel. "The poor headman. Katyusha must be hysterical."

His blond companion leaned on his hoe and shrugged helplessly. "Forget Katyusha, _Alfred_'s the one who's probably making a scene. And the little girl's probably crying her eyes out."

_What?_

Ivan strained to listen from where he stood. The blond man was going on: "It isn't like we didn't know this would happen someday," he said airily. "Boy's just too small and sickly. They summoned a doctor and Father Xavier, but it looks pretty hopeless at this point. Matthew's got too much fluid in his lungs. Can't breathe."

Ivan's heart cracked with pain. _Oh, no._ He'd seen somber funeral processions pass through the fields before, sometimes with pitifully small coffins.

But he never thought that—someone he'd actually sort of met—A sickening depression. No wonder Alfred had been acting so down as of late, his shoulders sagged as if bearing the weight of the world and eyes meant to be bright were dull, his footstep labored.

Was Matthew at death's door? Oh, God.

_Poor, poor Matthew. _

The rest of the day, Ivan prayed, though he did not know to whom.

~*oOo*~

Later that night, everyone began to head home. Much to Ivan's relief, the iron bell wasn't ringing yet, so Matthew was still alive….

….for now.

He inwardly sighed. _Oh, to be able to go and see them both…._He could only sit in the distance and pray that the bell did not toll, marking a death….

_"Alfred!" _Someone called in the distance_. "ALFRED!" _

Feeling as though someone had just dumped an ice bucket of water over him, the scarecrow looked out of the corner of his button eyes to see a number of torches starting to glow like tiny matchsticks in the distance. Panic struck him. _Surely Matthew wasn't already….._

"Alfred!" cried out a distressed-sounding woman. It was Katyusha! **"ALFRED!" **

"Alfred!"

"Alfred!"

"Alfred, where are you?!"

Out of habit, Ivan strained with all his mental might to turn his head, though of course he remained plastered against his pole.

He heard some more shouting, and a small band of people rushed to the fields, scattering and calling out Alfred's name. Arthur Kirkland was among them, his skin as pale as a fish's belly in the firelight, his green eyes ripe with fear.

Ivan longed to scream, to **shake** at them and roar and demand answers. What the**_ hell_** was going on?

"Any luck?" asked an anxious-looking woman with a flower in her light brown hair and green eyes to a dark-haired young man. The man sighed.

"No. You don't think he would have been so foolish as to go to the mountains, do you?" He shivered, and the woman with a flower in her hair stepped closer to him, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. "It's so cold already this time of year…he'll catch his death!"

"If the wolves don't catch him first," the man said dully. "When Berwald and Tino went trapping the other day, they said they saw plenty of tracks. Lousy beasts are probably feeding up as much as they can before winter comes…they see a snack like Alfred stumbling around in the dark like a moron, and they'll swallow him up like a drop of honey."

A wolf let out a moaning howl somewhere in the distance. Normally, Ivan liked to listen to the wolves howling, seemed as if they were making music, but this sound belted in him all the despair and dismay the iron bell would have.

_No. _

His heart slipped out of his chest.

**_NO!_**

"Don't say such horrible things!" The woman cried as a man caught up to them, shaking his head, dragging something along behind him. It took the stupefied Ivan several seconds to realize that it was a struggling Arthur Kirkland, whom he was dragging along by the hair.

"It's true though, isn't it! Stupid son of a bitch is gonna die out there looking for some stupid fake cure-all, and his brother's on his way out! That means there isn't gonna be any new headman, less you think it's gonna be Lilli…" He shook Arthur, who winced and pulled at the man's large hand. "And it's all your fault, you little rat!"

"Please," Arthur cried out, cowering. "Please, I only wanted to help, I never thought…"

"No, you _didn't_ think, did you?" one of the villagers hissed, gathering back to regroup. "If he's not here babbling lunatic nonsense to that stupid scarecrow, he's taken your tale for truth and gone off into the mountains."

"That's not true," one of the younger men spoke up, frowning. "I think that jijiya stuff's real. My granddad had some of it once when he had consumption. Saved the old bastard's life; he swore by it."

The man holding Arthur by the hair swore and sent him flying with a kick. "Ain't gonna be any of that stuff left—if it's real, den the merchants probably swooped down and stole all they could like the swindling beasts they are. Or it's impossible to get, considering it's supposed to grow on the _unsurpassable mountain pass_, where if ya make so much as a peep an avalanche of rocks will mark yer grave." He shook his head. "With a chatterbox like that stupid kid, we got two bodies to bury in the next few hours."

~*oOo*~

The men left, and a small team of horses thundered off into the darkness. Ivan cursed, his mind throbbing chaos.

How very like him, how very like Alfred, to chase after a herb which may or not exist in an attempt to save his brother. Ivan's heart froze over on the ground. How very like the little hero, out there alone in the wilderness, in the darkness, surrounded by beasts with red, mad eyes and gleaming teeth…

The idea of the men bringing Alfred back pale and lifeless made him sick with horror, made him want to tear at himself until only scraps remained. Ivan wanted to hurt; he wanted comfort, he wanted to hurt someone, he wanted to run, run, run, run, crash through the forests for as many hours or nights as it took.

_Oh, sweet one…_

Alfred was going to die out there.

_I have to move. Now._

But nothing. He'd seen the way people shuddered, how their breath had made puffs in the air. The season of the white death was coming very soon, and Alfred wasn't found _immediately_—

_I have to move!_

The cry, cracked with pain filled his senses until it surmounted everything, every fiber of himself:

**_I HAVE TO MOVE!_**

_Please! I'll do anything—what do you want from me? Why do you give me awareness if you're only going to seal me inside of this hell?_

And then, an anguished wailing.

**_ALFRED! _**

And then, the wind abruptly died down before picking up, whistling shrilly.

The cornstalks shivered all around Ivan, and all of a sudden, the healthy green leaves started to change shade, fading to a lighter, dustier green before withering away to a sickish hue before becoming brown, black—gone away. The corn dropped out of their protective cases and started to rot away, bright yellow kernels becoming the color of dust.

Condensation appeared on the falling stalks, slowly crystallizing into frost, which eagerly shot upward and started encasing the dying leaves. Astonished, Ivan watched what normally took weeks to start happen within mere seconds.

Thick white flakes started tumbling from the sky, and as the biting winds picked up, his scarf started flying wildly behind him. Vision blurred, bewildered and lost and frightened, the scarecrow could only sit as winter overtook the world and ask—

_What is all of this? _

To his shock, a deep, husky, yet perfectly elegant and rich voice answered his own thoughts:

_"I can help you." _

_~*oOo*~_

* * *

**Noooo, Ivan, don't do it! D: Well, nothing ventured nothing gained, but still! **


	5. Deal

**Hello again, my darlings. Sorry it took so long to update...um, can't say I've ever written in the perspective of a scarecrow before.  
**

**My original intention was to actually have the Netherlands be Alfred's Daddy, but unfortunately I don't have a name for him and think he'll appear as a different character in the storyline. I ultimately went with Denmark because he seems to be a lot like Alfred, has the charisma necessary to be a leader, and Ukrainian-Danish relations are pretty good real-worldwise.  
**

**For the issues of life and death here...they do not necessarily reflect my own, okay? Disclaimer right here.  
**

**Warning: THIS IS RATED M FOR MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF SYRUPY SYRUP (kidding; not M).  
**

**Please forgive me if the opening preview reminds you a little too much of _Charlotte's Web._ *Facepalms* It had to be done for character development reasons. Could not be avoided. End of story. World without end. **

**Enjoy, and please review! **

~*oOo*~

* * *

_Weeks beforehand:_

Oh, how delighted Alfred was that it was springtime again. No longer did he have Mama looking up from the cooking, sewing, or cleaning and anxiously calling out that he needed his cloak or a hat or a scarf, or worse yet, all three whenever he tried to race out the front door. Spring, Alfred thought, meant fresh and cool dewy grass brushing against your bare feet as you raced out into the world again, ready to conquer a new day.

But today was different. Today, he had a mission and if he didn't get there in time—no. Wouldn't even think about it, couldn't.

His feet sliding over the slippery grass as he ran—he might have fell once or twice—Alfred scrambled to the barn and dragged open one of the heavy wooden doors, gasping. He might have been rather small, but he was amazingly strong for his age. Everyone said so.

To his dismay, Alfred didn't find Papa in the barn. Without another thought, he dashed out again, circling the tired old structure and at last glimpsing his father's familiar blond hair glinting in the sunlight. But that wasn't the only thing shining; Papa was turning over his gleaming ax, running a gloved finger over the tool as he checked its sharpness. Beside him was an old stump—they'd cut a tree down last year to prevent disease, or something like that—and on the stump lay a tiny, wheezing little goat, its pale tongue lolling out of its mouth as it panted. It was hardly much of a goat, more like a scrap of one. Any proud farmer would be ashamed to look at it.

"No! Papa, please don't! No!"

Matthias slowly turned around, surprise on his face quickly turning into annoyance. The great man sighed and shook his head. "Al, get back inside. Go on, get. Yer Ma probably needs help makin' breakfast."

"I can't!" the little boy exclaimed, racing to the stump. "Papa, she's gonna be fine! Why d'ya gotta kill her?!"

The headman just shook his head again, his firm eyes now holding some pity in them. "Al, you know her Ma died giving birth to this runt." He nudged the pathetic creature with his axe. "It doesn't have anyone to nurse from now, and it's too small to live for very long. Look at it—see that it can't even breathe right? Its lungs probably aren't all there. It'll be dead in a few hours anyhow, so I'm going to put the poor thing out of its misery."

I'll take care of her!" Alfred cried, standing on tiptoe so that he could wrap his arms around the feeble goat. "I'll take care of her! I'll make her well again, I promise!"

His father gave him a harsh look. Clutching her skirts, Katyusha hurried into the clearing to see what all the fuss was about.

"Get back. This isn't something that time will fix, Alfred. Now stop being a blasted fool and get to the dern house. _And stop crying._ A man don't show his tears, y'hear?"

"No, Papa,** no**," Alfred begged, and on the last word his voice cracked and the dams broke. Alfred began to cry, hot tears streaming down his face as he clutched at the tiny goat again, trying to shield it with his small body. Matthias pulled a switch from a nearby tree, but Katyusha seized it and broke it to bits. "Really, Alfred, your father is being kind," she said mildly, bending down to stroke the sobbing child's hair. "There's no point in making the little one suffer if it will just die soon, is there? You did not fuss so when Papa put that sheep down after it had been attacked by wolves."

"Kat, stop coddling him," Matthias scolded unhappily, heaving his axe. "This is a lesson everyone's gotta learn, and the boy sooner than later if he's going to take my place one day."

"No! I'll take care of it, Papa, I promise! I'll take good care of her and everythin'!" Alfred wailed. Matthias' brows disappeared amongst his bangs.

"Even if I told you that I'd give you a good lashing? And what of your gallivanting about the fields every spare second you have? You'd have to give that up for awhile to look after the runt if by some miracle it actually lived."

Hiccuping, Alfred just quickly nodded, bobbing his tear-stained face. Nonplussed, Matthias turned to look at his wife. "Why does this matter so much to you? You didn't complain so much when we kilt Old Bess last year and Mama made a stew outta her."

"Ya said dat it was Bess's time to go," Alfred faltered. "Because she had a good life and was tired." He stared at the ground, biting his lip as more tears trickled down his face. "And the sheep was sad and b-bloody. But** I'll** take care of the goat," he insisted. "It'll be fine. The baker….a-and some other people….they said that you shoulda _kilt_ Mattie," he croaked, and Matthias' startled blue eyes widened. "When Mattie'n I were born. I heard 'im say you shoulda kilt Mattie coz he were small. And ya didn't. And 'm so _happy_ ya didn't, coz Mattie's my best friend!"

Matthias didn't dare look at the expression on his wife's face. Alfred shook his head wildly and howled: "Ya can't kill her, can't kill her, can't kill her!"

Katyusha stepped forward, squeezed her husband's hand, made him look at her. Matthias sent a sad, bewildered look in his wife's direction before turning to look at his heir, still bawling over an animal that would in all likelihood die very soon.

The man let out a long, shuddering sigh, his still-youthful face lined with resignation.

"…fine. I hope this teaches you a good lesson, boy."

Breathless, Alfred's sobs abruptly came to a halt, and he goggled up at his father.

"Ya mean I can—"

_"Yes," _said the headman with some amused irritation as Alfred carefully hoisted the goat into his arms, away from the stump. "Get some food into her and keep her warm. And for god's sake, don't ya let me catch ya tellin' Lukas about dis. He'll never let me hear the end of it."

"Soak a handkerchief with milk and let the little one suck," Katyusha advised as Alfred awkwardly waddled off to the barn to do just that, goat's head bobbing with every step he took. She smiled, albeit somewhat worriedly as Matthias huffed, kicking at some dirt on the ground. "You just made it worse, Kat."

"Goats are so dear to trade for these days. We might as well let Alfred_ try_ to save her. It would mean another goat for milk and cheese."

"Dead by tonight, tops. The poor thing came too early and can't get enough air in. It won't be able to nurse."

"Oh, Matthias," Katyusha said despairingly, watching her child disappear around the side of the barn, holding the goat as tenderly as he'd held his newborn baby sister years ago, when he'd been just a baby himself. "What could we do? With words like…" She shook her head, face crumpling. Matthias wrapped an arm around her.

"I'll have a good long talk with Francis this afternoon," he growled darkly as Katyusha clapped her hands to her streaming eyes. "After I _fix_ him good. Still," he added morosely, looking to the barn with sad eyes. "Alfred should learn that a baby human and a baby goat ain't exactly the same thing. Damn it all," he cursed, slapping his knee. "I should have been quicker, should have expected this out of him. It's lucky Matthew's not usually such a blasted fool, softhearted as he is…"

"Matthias," Katyusha chided gently as she slowly began to lead the man back to the house. "Your language...and you never do know. God's preserved our blessed Matthew," she said pointedly, making the sign of the cross and murmuring a word in thanks. "With any luck, He will preserve our Alfred's heart."

~*oOo*~

_Hours Ago_

Word spread quickly in the fields, and the Headman earned many amused snickers and sympathetic glances. Alfred had been permitted to take the day off from his usual water duties to tend to the goat, though Matthias warned him that he would have to take on many of Matthew's chores to make up for the missing work. Far from looking upset—after all, many of Matthew's tasks like carrying in wood fell to Alfred when his brother was bedridden—Alfred had only nodded happily and gone back to dipping his fingers into the milk bucket so that the goat could slowly suck them, dark eyes sleepy and thoughtful.

That evening, when the work of the day had finally been finished, the houses circled around Matthias' waited in fretful anticipation. Women looked up as they carried in pails of water to heat for baths, and men paused on their way whilst feeding the livestock, expecting at any moment anguished cries would break out from the headman's home. Hardly an uncommon phenomenon—days after an exhausted Katyusha gave birth to Alfred and Matthew and a hasty baptism was performed for them both, everyone had fully expected that the priest would be summoned to the house again, this time accompanied by the coroner. Only one of the babies glowed with good health and screamed heartily like any good child should-the other had been very small and very blue in the face, with a slightly twisted right ankle.

But the lamentations did not come; when suppertime came, Katyusha went up the farm loft to find her son asleep in the hay beside the little goat. To her surprise, the little creature still breathed.

Three days later, it breathed still, and its appetite grew; soon the little goat was greedily lapping at milk from Alfred's hands, and it followed him on tottery legs wherever it could.

"Well, son, did I teach you your lesson?" Matthias asked as he and his wife came upon Alfred and Matthew outside one lazy Saturday afternoon weeks later. The smaller twin was happily stroking the growing goat's head while Alfred carefully brushed the brown fur, inspecting for any fleas. "If you never give up, wonderful things can happen to you. I'm glad you proved my point."

Alfred threw his father a glowing, admiring look with his large cornflower eyes. "Yeah! I gots it!" he crowed. "Thank you, Papa, thank you!"

Katyusha just gave her husband The Look. Matthias swallowed and had the grace to look a little ashamed.

"Well, Kat, I gotta tell 'im _something_."

Alfred, it transpired, did not much like names such as Posy or Rosy, so he ultimately wound up naming the meek little goat The Captain, much to everyone's amusement. Now the once-wretched creature wouldn't look at you unless you remembered to add the "the" part to its name, and whenever not in the pens, it followed Alfred anywhere it could—to the woods, to the sloping meadows around the village that were bursting with delectable buttercups, once or twice to the fields where Alfred introduced her to a tall man, who was stuffed full of what looked like breakfast.

But because Alfred seemed to hold the strange gentleman in high esteem, she refrained from nibbling on him.

~*oOo*~

* * *

As the warm summer weather began to wane in favor of the advancement of autumn, Matthew's colds started up again. Alfred's twin had always been a sickly boy, felt ill maybe two or three times a month, sometimes for a very long time if it were a particularly bad spell, as Mama called it. As the dark green grass began to yellow with the leaves of the enormous woods that surrounded their humble habitat, Katyusha began getting up in the middle of the night to tend to the hearth fire, and usually wound up pulling up the quilt over the twins so that she could check and confirm Matthew was still breathing. Lili no longer slept in her little crib, but nestled on Matthew's right side, whilst Alfred slept on his left.

Normally, Alfred greatly anticipated the coming of Fall, as it meant the advancing of Harvest Moon, but the advancing darkness in the mornings and evenings now left him with a most unsettling sort of dread, even as Katyusha wrapped her old afghans around Matthew's white little body and made him drink strengthening medicine that tasted absolutely repulsive.

In the beginning, he tried to shake it off, did most of Matthew's work without complaint as the doctor visits to his home increased. It could only be a good thing, even if the man always gave Matthew garlic and honey juice, which, according to his brother, tasted nearly as bad as Arthur's cooking. But when meat and milk didn't create blooming roses in Matthew's cheeks-which looked much sharper these days-the family began giving Matthew the lion share of food at mealtimes as the corn continued to ripen. But the little boy just picked at much of it, even when Alfred dragged Arthur over to his home to start chanting magic healing spells over Matthew's thinning body.

When the first cold morning of the season came, the air crisp and with a slight bite to it, like that of a bitter apple, Matthew started sneezing again a great deal. He was forever in need of a handkerchief, but worst still was the coughing. He coughed up phlegm when Alfred was trying to tell him of how The Captain wandered away and ate Francis' wash, shook with hacking coughs in the bed whilst Lilli and Alfred tried to sleep and the miserable little boy gasped futilely for a breath of free, easy air.

Soon, heat returned to Matthew's complexion, but not at all in the way Alfred hoped it would; Matthew's face now burned red with fever though his hands were still cold, and Mattias and Katyusha had no choice but to move their two other children as to not risk them to sickness. Lili now slept in the big bed with Mama and Papa, and Alfred slept in the barn and wished more than ever that he could bring his straw-stuffed companion to Mattie. He brought Arthur around regularly to see visit his twin in an attempt to bring some cheer back to Matthew's clouded eyes, but now the two boys were almost aways shooed away by Katyusha, as Matthew needed his rest.

His attacks grew in number, and once Alfred had had to run for the doctor twice in one day as his father frantically swat Matthew across the back, trying to clear his child's airway so that the boy could breathe.

One day, whilst working in the fields, Alfred saw Tino, the town messenger rushing to the fields on horseback, his normally cheerful face darkened with trouble. The young man had immediately dismounted upon approaching the headman, muttered something in his ear, and less a minute later Matthias had mounted the horse and sped off, all the confidence and good humor Alfred so dearly loved in his father's face quite drained.

His water dipper falling from loose fingertips, Alfred had sped off after him with all the speed he could, leaving his bucket alone in the fields as he dashed to the house.

o*~*oOo*~*o

_He'll be okay. Just another bad spell. It'll be over soon. _

All the same, Alfred did not return to the fields the next day; Matthew had very nearly died. Thankfully Lilli had wandered in the house for her dolly and took one look at her wheezing brother before running out to Katyusha in the henhouse, sobbing and pressing her face in the woman's skirts. Katyusha had begged a passing Arthur to fetch the doctor whilst dousing her dying boy in water, shaking him and trying desperately to keep the boy's dazed blue-violet eyes fixed on her, every breath sounding like a death rattle.

The family huddled around Matthew's bedside later that evening; no one remembered to fix supper. Katyusha got on her knees and gave Lilli, Alfred, and Arthur a set of beads and instructed them to pray, her eyes extremely bloodshot. All Matthias' bravado and confidence that Mattie would be better well before the season's end was dead, as dead as budding springtime flowers under a December frost. Alfred could only look at the gasping ghost of his brother and shake, a bewildering, impossible fear rushing down his spine and freezing him from the inside out.

_But there was no need for that, because Matthew would be fine. Just fine. God killed bad people, not good and kind people like his brother._

After two hours of chanting, Alfred dared to break the cycle and looked at his mother, his lip trembling wildly, his face ashen.

"Mama?"

His mother did not reply. Still bent over the wooden beads, Katyusha murmured another Hail Mary, and then a prayer to some other saint Alfred had never heard of before beginning an Our Father. Alfred wondered if that would help, if it was supposed to help at all-Matthew still groaned for air, tears racing down his feverish face. How Alfred longed to pour some of his own strength and life into that frail body, make it rise and be happy and well again! He seized Matthew's hand and tried to warm it within his.

Matthias gently put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Kat, you're just hurting yourself." His voice broke on the last word and the man swallowed heartily, blinking several times and looking painfully lost, glancing around his home as if he were a small boy again, imploring for answers in a friendless and strange, absurd world. He stared up at the ceiling, jaw set, and the man appeared to be trembling. Alfred thought he looked very much like Lili when the little girl tried her very best not to cry. "There's….I…."

"Papa?" Alfred asked quietly, his voice so low he could barely hear himself. The man hid his face in one hand.

Arthur looked on sadly as Lili threw her beads on the floor-Mama and Papa did not even scold her for such blasphemy-and the little girl marched to her chair, tears quietly pouring down her face. Alfred went to her, hugged her.

"Ya don't hafta cry, Lilli. He's gonna be okay. Mattie's always okay."

The little girl did not answer. Alfred wandered back to his twin's side and stood on tiptoe next to the bed.

"Hey, Mattie."

If Matthew understood him, his dead and glassy eyes did not show it. Alfred firmly gripped his hand again.

"Ya need ta stop this and get bettah now," he fussed. "I mean it."

"Alfred, enough," The headman said quietly as Katyusha began to sob into the shawl she'd draped over the boy-every last scrap of material they could salvage went to cover the fading Matthew. Matthias strode away, staggering slightly. Hurt, Alfred stared in-comprehensively at Matthew as the sound of unfamiliar footsteps echoed-an intruder in a private tragedy.

And Alfred's world spiraled into horror when his traitorous father said the blackest, vilest of words:

"Fetch the priest." A guttural sob, a moan. "We need someone to give Matthew Last Rites."

~*oOo*~

* * *

_"Sleep, my precious one, sleep my golden corn,_

_Sleep safe and sweet until yonder morn, _

_Fear no ugly shadow, and fear no wicked thorn,_

_Which surely sprang blossom on the day you were born,_

_Yes, surely sprang blossom on the day you were-"_

The time-old village lullaby quivered like a bowstring's pulse as a grieving mother's voice gave out. Hugging his knees to his chest, Alfred rocked back and forth on the stone step outside his home as the old priest's gravelly voice began to murmur a time old prayer. Would Matthew even be able to swallow the wafer?

An uncertain hand touched his shoulder, as skittish as a wounded animal approaching a predator.

"I am so sorry, Alfred," Arthur said quietly, staring at the great, bloody red sun slowly sinking in the sky. His young and serious face was lined with a great sadness.

The boy next to him simply shrugged.

"D-don't be. He's gonna be just f-fine." The boy swallowed past the painful blockage in his throat, trying to push away the wild tears bubbling beneath the surface, ready to dew past his eyes and send him screaming, wailing, cursing at the sky because _this isn't right, isn't right, isn't fair_-

But he's a man. And men didn't cry, not when they didn't have anything to cry about. Mattie would be okay.

Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away. Alfred plucked a long stalk of grass and twirled it around thoughtfully inbetween his fingertips.

"I just wish I knew what I could give him to help. He hurts..." Alfred winced and his hands flew to his own chest. "Like I can a'most feel it and...and it hurts! Real bad, like I can't breathe!"

Arthur gave him a long, hard, troubled look, not saying anything for a moment.

"I wish my mother was here," he said quietly, his fingertips brushing against his patched and frayed old boots, tapping against the thin material. "She would have known what to do-she could cure anything. Except, well, when..." Arthur huddled in on himself, frowning pensively. "She bled too much for Papa to save her. But Matthew reminds me of a girl back home-"

With a hurt scowl, Alfred jumped to his feet, ever ready to defend his brother's honor. Arthur held up a hand.

"-not that HE himself is like a girl, but a girl back home used to cough a lot. All the time. Dust, pollen, animals-and other things would set it off and people did not know how to make it go away. She coughed until her hands were red."

"That's Mattie! He coughs up real dark red stuff sometimes when da coughin's real bad!"

"Mother would give her chamomile tea," Arthur murmured, squinting at the sunset and thinking carefully. "Passionflower extract, mullein leaves...that would make her coughing go away for awhile, but it always came back. Then, one day she got the sweating sickness, which I think is what Matthew has. The girl couldn't breathe, couldn't stomach anything."

Alfred seized a startled Arthur by the collar and hoisted him to his feet. "What'd your Ma do?" he demanded, refusing to let go even as Arthur pushed at him, staggered back. "What'd yer Ma do, what'd she do, c'mon, Artie, please-"

"She gave the girl Echinacea root, I think," Arthur grumbled, green eyes dimming with dismay when Alfred howled and clapped his hands to his face.

"That's what MY Ma's been trying! And it ain't working! Ain't working! Oh, God..." The awful tears were rising to a boil, begging to be let free and Alfred all but smashed his little fists against his face as he tried to control the flood. "No...Mattie can't...he won't...he'll be _fine_..."

Hysteria made his voice rise, his little face clenched with resolve and savage pain. "'m...'m a hero and I won't let anyone _die..._!"

"M-My mother also gave the girl crushed Jijiya petals," Arthur soothed, hesitantly reaching out for Alfred's arm only to flinch away. "You know, the red and white flowers that saved Derisory the Great when he was wounded in the mountains after fighting the great dragon? _Those were real_, Alfred," he breathed, bumping his forehead against the crying little boy's. "The little girl sometimes had breathing problems when she had panic attacks, but she_ lived_ to have them. When I asked your apothecary why he hadn't given any to Matthew, he just laughed and said that you people ran out of dried Jijiya years ago, didn't bother try to grow any yourself because the flowers need the thin mountain air. THEN he told me that the story was just a _myth_!" Arthur's angry voice skyrocketed, echoed in the clearing braced for mourning. "It's true, Alfred. Believe me."

Alfred stared at the little boy desperately. "I-It sounds too good to be true..."

"It isn't," Arthur snapped hotly. "My mother used it, and my mother is not a fraud!"

"Where is it?!" Alfred cried, seizing Arthur by the shoulders, blue eyes enormous. "Where is it, where is it, where is it?!"

"I-In the mountains, like I told you...on the highest rock of the Great Point, overlooking the valley..."

"Jijiya," Alfred breathed, staring up into the distant rocky cliffs. "What does it look like?"

Arthur's gaze followed Alfred's. "W-well, there are six petals on each flower, three white, three red. Little flowers, in a cluster, with black stripes on the blossoms. It's Autumn now, so there might not be very many left, but if you can climb that far-"

Arthur's voice trailed off as he turned to look at his side. Alfred was gone.

* * *

*o~*oOo*~o*

"Sorry, Cap, I can't take you," Alfred murmured apologetically, patting his goat on the nose before seizing an old rope, his cap, and an apple as an afterthought, packing them.

He hurriedly slung his cloth bag over his shoulder. It was an old frayed thing, used to be a feeding bag for one of the mules, but it would do. After impatiently brushing the straw off his form, he rushed out of the barn, making a beeline towards the woods.

Alfred ran. He ran faster than he had ever ran in his life, faster than when a group of angry thugs had been trailing his heels. Thankfully, he could see the rocky slopes even from this far away, so he couldn't possibly be long. He'd never gone to the mountains beyond the wood before, the enormous legion of boulders and great spiraling cliffs that seemed to rise into the very heavens-but if he walked straight there, straight back, then it would be impossible for him to get lost.

This was no time for cowardice, he lectured himself firmly as he rushed past the very last houses on the outskirts of the village, towards the trees that towered over him like castles. Let them tower. He wouldn't lose, would face any phantom or spook that tried to confront him when he was out to rescue his brother, his best friend.

He had to go, and he had to go now. His brother was going to die if someone didn't collect the plant, and Alfred knew now that it had to be him who went up into the mountains. He would find the red and white flowers and Mama would use it to heal Matthew's hurting.

A shame he hadn't told Mr. Scarecrow about this. But it would make a good story to tell when everything was well again. Heck, one day, they would ALL sing songs about him. They would ask the bards for the story about Alfred the Hero, who brought back the magic flower and saved his brother.

"Jijiya, Jijiya, gotta find some Jijiya," he chanted to himself as he dashed past the great oaks.

Catchy tune. Feeling a little reassured as he dashed underneath the familiar and safe shadow of trees extending their many branches, he smiled, determination sparking in his heart with all the light Mathias had in his eyes as he showed his sons the vast potential of the glorious land. "Alfred the Hero's gonna find some Ji-ji-ya. Jijjya, Jijjiya, gotta find some jijiya..."

~*oOo*~

* * *

_Present Time_

Mind a blank, Ivan watched as snow continued to fester over the world, like a great white fungus, eagerly swallowing up the life that had come before it and growing, growing. How had the villagers not noticed this yet? The food had rotted away to nothingness. If the rate of death and decay was spreading beyond Ivan's post, then everyone would surely starve.

_What? _He dared to ask, his mind quaking in its vessel.

**"I can help you,"** The voice said again in a wine-smooth voice, dark and amused. **"What would you have of me?"**

Of course, Ivan was still confined to his hellish motionlessness, frozen stiff and solid as the ice that glittered upon his body like hundreds of little starlit diamonds, but a great surge of joy and disbelief overcame when it finally dawned on him that he was speaking. To someone. A different entity, a persona not of his own self, for he was _fairly_ certain he had not been thinking those thoughts-

_Who are you? _The scarecrow asked, his thoughts hushed with wonder and awe. As well as a creeping sense of terror, for somehow he knew that the cool and majestic voice in his head was connected to the snow pooling around him and on him-

**Obviously one who lend aid, else I would not have come. Come now, young one, tell me what it is you wish. **

_How can you possibly help me? _Ivan demanded._ Are you me? Not me? _

**Yes, **was the voice's simple reply. **You have seen me many times before, in the faces of my children, no doubt. I have seven.**

_Seven?_ Ivan asked, momentarily distracted from the misery of his existence. Why,_ what names do they go by?_

**They have many. Just as I have many, have had many, will have many, for always and always and always. But,** the voice added sweetly, as a great wind started whistling in Ivan's misshapen ears, **You may call me 'Winter.'**

Ivan's mind shivered. The presence in his mind was certainly welcome after so many years with none at all, but it loomed over him, threatened to pull him away under a great cold, a great numbness that would bury him, crush him. _Why have you come? It's not yet your time._

**You long for mobility.**

The scarecrow stiffened, and again hope burst free like a dove from its confines from his heart. Yes_. Can you give it to me?_

There was a pause. **How badly do you long for this?** The voice asked, white flakes whipping past the scarecrow's eyes, blinding him. **Obviously you believe you want it very badly, else I could not have come. I am forbidden with making contracts with the children of Men**, **and yet, I have been able to come hither tonight, for you are obviously no human being. Yet you are in the unlikeliest of circumstances that allows you to possess a soul.**

Ivan's breath hitched, or would have, if he had any. I_ have a soul?_

**The woman who made you gave you a heart. And with that heart, she gave you a shard of her immortal soul. Many dolls, figures meant to resemble the human ensemble are crafted, all given bits and pieces of spirit if made with the fullest extent of the craftsman's ability. It would seem Miss Katyusha has a large soul, one she was perfectly capable of sharing**. **She breathed life into you.**

_Katyusha..._

**To be frank, it need not be a doll-humans are fickle enough to put themselves into anything: their little luxuries, their monies. But most bits of soul in dolls or figurines simply fade away; they are not nurtured and cared for, and once they have served their purpose of being some child's plaything, they often serve a greater purpose**. The voice cackled. **As fuel for a bonfire**.

Ivan's mind recoiled from the terrible laughter in the way his body could not. _I don't understand, then. What happened to me? I am not a doll—is this why I have consciousness? _

**Alfred, Alfred happened,** the voice returned simply, dryly. **Sentimental though it might be, from your desire and Alfred's care, a synthesis soul of sorts was created. The seed by Alfred's mother, watered by her son, nourished and crafted by you. I imagine the reason why Alfred sensed your awareness was because you held a splinter of Katyusha inside you, and thought you a friend. I imagined he could not bear to stay away once he began pouring his own soul into you.** The voice sounded strangely transfixed, hungry even, and Ivan did not like it at all. **Generous...generous boy, such a large soul, pouring out in waves...for such a little thing... **

_None of this matters,_ Ivan pleaded. _If you can give me my wish, do so, or begone with you. I want to be human. I—_I need to be human. I think I can tell where Alfred might be! _There's a...a _pull_, on myself, my body, and if I follow it-_

**So very rude,** the voice answered chidingly, mockingly. **It will please you then, to know that I can grant you your wish. And should you seek the boy out, you will in all likelihood find him unless he's already hot flesh within a beast's belly—**

_So then grant it!_ Ivan raged. _Please! Make me a human being!_

**I can grant you a body blessed with mobility**, **with speech, but not a heart that beats life, nor a pair of eyes that shed tears, nor breath to race through your lungs. The Father below has never been able to create such**, the voice added grudgingly, as if admitting inferiority to a better craftsman.

_The Father Below?_

**Again, the most I can grant you is yourself much as you are now, but with the freedom to move. I can also grant you but one day of humanity, of being flesh and bone. You will be able to decide for yourself when to accept this gift, but a warning. If at any time you choose to become human for a day, then the contract between us is immediately altered.**

_In what way?_

**If you accept my offer to make you "real," then in twenty years, I will come anon and take what you prize most dearly, as well as enlist you as my servant. But if you at any point in time wish for your one day of humanity, I will come to take you as my servant as soon as you become straw once again.**

The voice started to laugh. A great, maniacal, wild laugh, a laugh as definite and as ringing as the village's sole bell, marking the end of yet another life.

**And all that is yours will in fact be mine. Make your choice, Ivan. The night will wane; I shall not stay long. **

As the laughter continued pealing, echoing, a frantic and bewildered Ivan didn't think of bitter cold and dead, fruitless stalks.

No; he thought of a great sun looming down from overhead, beaming down at the world as the people's combined effort waved sweetly in a breeze that must be so pleasant to feel upon one's skin, like gentle music. He remembered sparkling drops of water, a shining little prince generously supplying the strange and life-giving material, dunking it on plants when he thought they looked in need of extra nourishment, even if it meant an extra trip to the river and his having to heave a bucket that nearly pulled his arm out of his socket. Splashing it on Ivan and making him feel a part of things when he was no more than mere background scenery, a misshapen and lifeless creature with an empty and soiled heart.

But Alfred would come back to him, talk of birds, talk of fish shimmying through clear, laughing water and showing off flashing scales, of the firm assurance he had that his ill brother would be better again, that a friend could be found even in the strange and sullen Arthur, that practically any punishment was acceptable, so long as you went out in the world and DID IT.

Ivan's heart ached bitterly, and the scarecrow at last understood what it meant to feel physical hurt, because he wanted to stand with Alfred, move beside him and thank him for giving him this precious, sorrowful, beautiful parcel that was Ivan's life, standing vigil over life and throughout all the seasons.

But he had the opportunity for _more_. To stand by Alfred's side as the seasons came and went, as Alfred grew and flourished and beamed the way he was meant to. To rescue Alfred from a premature grave, when he was meant for so much more.

He wasn't dead. He could not be dead. Not yet. The only use Ivan would have in mobility after that was to walk to a fire pit, because Alfred was the first true friend he'd ever had.

A powerful ache improved to a burning desire. He wanted Alfred, wanted to hold his hand and stay with him until Ivan's body wore to nothing but stray bits of torn fabric and leaves.

_I love you._ Just as glorious-if not even more so-than the gift of life. _I love you._

Winter enfolded him, closed over him.

From a distance, Ivan heard the laughter of children in his mind before he was swept away.

~*oOo*~

* * *

When the world returned into focus, the world was not wintry but once again in the throes of early Autumn, grain swishing in the late night gale. Ivan gazed blankly upon it, watching grain flicker from the distant light glowing from the village, where tiny lanterns still glowed and people still called out for Alfred.

The scarecrow was mutinous as ever.

And then, there was the twitching of a leg, an involuntary shudder of the wrist. Ivan's eyes widened, and the scarecrow tumbled to the ground, astounded. He willed his hands to touch his face-

_And they did._ His hands, which looked like human hands, badly stitched and crooked as they were, touched his face, where Katyusha had patted it when he'd been created, where Alfred had so innocently left a kiss when trying to bring Ivan to life.

_Life._

Ivan _moved_. He flipped to his back, because he could, stared up at the murky heavens with eyes that did blink, because they could, and he heaved himself to his feet, his legs slipping underneath his weight as he tried to keep them steadfast, but they held, they held because they could-

Feeling fire beneath his eyes, Ivan staggered, fell again, this time landing facedown in the dirt.

_Alfred._

Reaching forward with powerful arms, Ivan dragged himself forward, and, after a great many fumbling attempts, hoisted himself again to his feet, which did not seem to want to walk when Ivan kept his toes pointed at each other. With all the clumsiness of a great child, Ivan dragged himself out of the fields, towards the edges of the forest, which by now was quite dark, full of rustling shadows.

_Alfred. _

And before Ivan learned to walk, he learned to run.

* * *

**Wow, Ivan, you really did it this time, huh? Wonder how everyone's going to react when people find a walking talking scarecrow in their midst? *Cringes* **

**Hey. Sorry this chapter wound up mostly being about Alfred, but I think I might have neglected him and his family just a little. I really don't approve of Shota most of the time, so I dearly hope none of you guys take this as romantic love right now. **

**Next chapter: Found. Please, please review! I will be eternally grateful if you do!**


	6. Found

**~*Belladonna*~**

**or**

**~*Found*~**

**Greetings, my supercalifrag...uh...*Mumbles incoherently*...very marvelous-docious readers! ^_^ Just started a new semester, and am facing a huge nemesis, my Dr. Moriarity, my one true hatred: Math. It's required (sadly), so may not be around very much for awhile. Still, I hope to update as much as I can before I disappear again. Will be busy this term, but I very much appreciate your support and patience. **

**Unfortunately, some of my works-in-progress accidentally got deleted *Sadly grows mushrooms in corner*...uck. Sometimes life is not awesome. **

**As always, will see you at the bottom, my dears, reviewers will be hugged on sight, and please enjoy!**

* * *

~o*oOo*o~

_He's getting worse_.

So thought Arthur as he watched the emaciated body convulse underneath the sheets, his eyes sunken in his waxen face. It was disturbing just how much Matthew resembled Alfred—only when the violet eyes opened, glassy and lifeless as a doll's—was Arthur reassured that it _wasn't _Alfred lying there, dying before his eyes.

Not that watching Matthew suffering so was any better. Feeling a pang of guilt, he reached into the nearby wooden bucket and drew out a rag, wringing it well before plastering it against Matthew's forehead, which burned against Arthur's hand even though the dying boy whined and tried to sink underneath the covers, teeth chattering so badly he'd cut his lips again.

Katyusha sat beside him, mumbling the Hail Mary prayer so quickly Arthur wondered if she'd possibly gone mad, or been possessed by a horde of angry, frenzied spirits. It was sad and more than a little uncomfortable to watch this woman cowering on the floor, calling on the heavens to deliver her children from evil.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he turned back to gaze at Matthew, who was clutching his stuffed bear (_they put eyes on it, why do these simpletons DO that_?) and wheezing, tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. Arthur hated to watch, hated Matthew for being ill, loathed him for being the cause of that absolute_ idiot_ being alone in the woods in the dead of night.

He sank back onto his stool, chin in his hands. But then again, _he'd_ been the one to tell Alfred about the Jijiya. A plant not even he was absolutely certain was real. In the heat of the moment, Arthur felt the need to defend his mother and angrily insisted its existence, and Alfred had really gone for it. By the time Arthur had realized it, by the time he'd raced to the barn and then to the edge of the wood, the boy was already gone.

His one friend couldn't possibly reach the cliff in one night; it was a journey that took at least two days to even get to the mountain. Then, there was the job of climbing the rocky slopes, which were so treacherous and slippery the bones of various healers attempting to get the sacred red flower littered the mountainside, their remains picked at by ravenous birds of prey. Then, there was the wood itself, cold in the dead of night with plenty of…_things _lurking about, many not particularly genial. He and his father could survive well enough in the wilderness—Arthur knew plenty of berries and roots and wild herbs which were safe to eat, but knowing Alfred, he was likely walking into trees and trying to hunt bears for his supper. Arthur's stomach rolled, and he clapped his hands to his face, fighting against the hoarse moan of hopelessness fighting to get out of him.

He ought to be out there searching with the other villagers. But most didn't accept him, and stones had been hailed upon him for trying to follow the rescue groups into the forest. Bloody bastards like Francis the town baker were constantly mocking his shabby clothes, unkempt hair, dirty hands and nails. And all the children were unnerved and afraid of him, excepting both Alfred and Matthew. Though the former he more or less forced to be his friend.

But by force, he'd won something golden. Even if Alfred radiated the aura of being annoyingly well-cared for, he liked Arthur enough to show him where bunnies liked to make their dens and raise little ones, where rainbow trout leapt out of the water and into the air, and where Alfred liked to go in the dead of night when the moon was full and he felt particularly scared or lonely. He'd even gotten Arthur a job working in the fruit orchards, so at least people looked upon him with a little less hostility.

Alfred filled silence with words, even if most of them were nonsense. He even seemed interested in Arthur himself, even if that by itself were nonsense.

He nibbled on a nail already bitten to a stub.

What would he do? When dawn came and Matthew's shallow, pained breathing finally fell to stillness and Alfred brought back in the arms of his father, head bobbing lifelessly?

Arthur bit the inside of his lip and stared at the floor, wanting to leave but had nowhere else to go. While he supposed there was always the shack he shared with his father, there would be no company besides a few rags and stuffed animals that had seen better days and the snores of a man once again wasted to drink.

But he didn't belong here. In this nice, tidy and wholesome home that usually smelled of flour and lavender and now reeked of medicine and bile. The blood Matthew had coughed up gave this place the metallic scent of death, of a personal tragedy he'd had the nerve to trespass on. He got up to leave.

To Arthur's surprise, Matthew's head lolled and a ghostly hand shot out for his, clutching it so feebly Arthur might have laughed if he didn't almost sort of very well did feel like crying. From somewhere, Lili let out a dry sob.

Matthew coughed, pink spittle gathering at his mouth. Glazed eyes took in Arthur, who saw his own unforgivably scared-looking reflection looking back in them.

"Where's," He whispered, the word sounding a lot like _was_. "Where's Af…"

With a noncommittal jerk of his head, Arthur grunted and looked away, awkwardly patting Matthew's hand before looking for the door. "He'll be here soon. They'll find him." He ought to go now, just slip out now and start chanting spells that would help the villagers find Alfred, and quickly. All he needed to do was grab one of Alfred's belongings, and—

But another pasty hand covered Arthur's, and Matthew bleated, "Arfur, nuh. Please."

The look was so piteous, so pathetic Arthur didn't know where to turn. But a warm hand covered his shoulder, and the boy looked up into Katyusha's sad eyes, made red from tears.

"Stay, my boy," She pleaded, and Arthur bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted rust. "I could not bear if you were lost, too…stay here and pray with me."

An unexpected, hard lump of emotion swelled in his throat. God hadn't saved his mother. God wasn't saving Matthew. And God in all likelihood would not save Alfred. Arthur's little fists tightened, and he stared stalwartly at the floor, trying to will the tears away as Katyusha pulled him into an embrace.

It was a bad idea, trusting what was not there, or if was, thoroughly enjoyed breaking people's hearts. Magic he could believe in, and he would chant every lost-found and healing spell his mother had ever murmured to him until his throat tore. Arthur stiffly nodded, resenting his stinging eyes and how the miserable woman was literally squeezing the tears out of him.

But for Katyusha's sake, he would pray. But not for the impossible, though he so dearly longed to when Matthew's sweaty little hand slid back into his and Arthur gripped it, held it steady.

He would pray for Alfred to be found, with a beating heart. And for Katyusha to not weep so bitterly when at least one of her children died the following morning.

* * *

When the nights were not cloudy and the moon not new, Alfred thoroughly enjoyed stealing outside as the sleepy town was settling and the moon glowed softly from above, a luminous lantern flocked by trillions of little stars, sugar grains swished across a milky blue darkness that seemed smooth as silk.

Despite Arthur's frightening talk of the full moon being a summons for wicked creatures such as witches and werewolves to do their ill work, Alfred loved a moonlit world. Moonlight wasn't quite so dazzling or as warm as sunlight, but it was _sincere_, worked hard to keep the world from being completely pitch black and scary. It was soft and serene, holy in its kingliness, somehow. He believed the moonlight sank into his bones, made him light and fast as he darted across cool meadows and danced, his shadow hurrying behind him like a good friend.

He could imagine as he was dancing that the meaner creatures of the Witching Hour were watching him, impressed by his courage, and waltzed with him in the parade of night led by the moon.

But there was no moonlight tonight. No faux notions of power or invincibility, of _belonging_ with frightening beasts and hungry, jaundiced eyes. There weren't even any stars shining through the many trees towering menacingly above him, just inky blackness. So black that very soon, Alfred could hardly see more than the faint puffs of air he wheezed out as he waded through the dark mounds of leaves, several wet and slimy ones sticking to his arms like leeches.

_Kritch-krunch_. _Kritch-krunch_. A dry twig cracked under his foot and Alfred stopped dead, clapping his hands to his mouth as his spine abruptly turned to ice. He automatically took a step back, and somewhere nearby, a loud croak broke through the stillness like thunder, nearly stopping his heart. And although every fiber of his being cried out to flee, he forced himself to go on, though his already poor vision went white with fear after a pair of unseen wings brushed past his face.

While the idea of deathly silence in the wood was terrifying, the child nonetheless began to wish after awhile that it could possibly be too dark to hear anything. Noises that he would not have registered in the day sent adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the shrill screeches of nocturnal creatures spurred thoughts of ravenous trolls.

Alfred would show them he wasn't afraid. That there was a mighty hero at home in the forest, in the wilderness. He would grab trolls by the horns and send them flying before he would be intimidated. With a dry tongue, Alfred licked at his lips and began to sing, in a voice much smaller than he would have liked:

"Al—Al…..A-Alfred da….da….hero's gonna….."

He wanted to keep singing, but his mouth was too parched now; his tongue had acquired a gluey consistency and was all but plastered to the roof of his mouth. Alfred duly wished he'd thought to bring his canteen—and something more to eat. He'd eaten his apple what felt like hours ago. For once in his life he wasn't hungry, but it would have given him something to do.

_I'm scared. _

But that was ridiculous; heroes weren't frightened of anything. And he was the bravest of them all, despite his short stature and lack of a trusty stead or sword. Alfred's eyelids flickered as he continued on his trek, teeth chattering as he stared up at the hulking shadow of the distant mountain, which looked vaguely like a sharp tooth.

Why, oh why wasn't it getting any bigger? He'd been walking for what had to be hours and the boulders remained cruelly in the distance, offering comfort, salvation, but always out of reach, like when the village bullies would steal something of his and hold it above his flailing, grasping hands.

_Mattie needs me to go on,_ Alfred reminded himself, sucking on his cold fingers to warm them. _I'll go on all night if I have to._

But what if Mattie didn't have all night? The idea was so terrible Alfred vowed to not think of it anymore. And just then, a much greater distraction arrived in the form of a howl:

_Aroooooooooooooooooooooooooo _!

Alfred stopped dead in his trek, nearly marching straight into a tree. It _sounds like it's far away_, he tried to reassure himself, though he had abruptly gone hot with fear_. Nothing will eat me if I just keep going, like I'm not scared_—

But another call pierced through the night, and then another. There were multiple ones in the forest; of course, wolves _always_ traveled in packs, were probably hungry this late autumn season when all the animals started to go into hibernation—

Terrified, Alfred ran straight forward, hearing the cries begin to close in. The sound of panting, of racing feet against fallen leaves, of starving growls broke into his thoughts and he abandoned all sense, fleeing blindly into the night as the howling began to grow louder, a shrill keen:

**_Aroooooooooooooooooooooooooo _****!**

If he just kept running, the mountain could not keep moving ahead and keep itself away. He would catch hold of it, climb the hills where the wolves could not reach him, and—

And then, Alfred broke through a clearing and saw it. He hadn't been running away towards anything; the howls had frightened him, herded him toward a beast that was staring at him just feet away with glowing yellow eyes.

Alfred stared at the wolf.

The wolf stared at Alfred.

And then, in a flash, it charged the young boy and Alfred immediately clambered for a nearby tree, his climbing skills impeccable even in the dark—and the wolf let out a dreadful roar, canines glinting as its jaw snapped hungrily, closing around Alfred's pant leg and dragging him down the tree trunk, towards an eager and swollen stomach, ribs prominent through dark gray fur like the bars of a cage.

Hot, yellow fangs sank into flesh. The sound of bounding paws filled the clearing as Alfred cried out in pain, frantically kicking at the wolf with his other leg, managing to land a clear blow to an eye.

The dog whined and dropped back, just for a second, but it was enough; he scampered up the tree for dear life, up the tree until he was very nearly at the top, clinging desperately to a branch. Blood oozed down an aching leg and he clutched it, staring down at the converging mass below.

Recovering, the wolf let out a dreadful noise, its fellows flanking it, most growling in frustration as they stared up at Alfred with large eyes, licking drool-dripping chops. They warily traced round the base of the tree trunk, and then one wolf flew at it, its claws crashing into the bark and scraping it as the aggravated creature slid down again, others following its lead, lunging for their prize.

Horrified, feeling sick with panic, Alfred hugged the tree branch and willed the nightmare to be over, for the image to pass over his eyes and become the roof of his home, of the barn, of the fields on the rare occasion he'd take a nap there. Once he'd fallen asleep next to Ivan, the scarecrow staring down at him with his usual smile that brimmed with life, with a persona trembling behind the violet buttons.

He would have liked for that to have been the last thing he saw. Swallowing past the knots in his throat, Alfred threw his head back and screamed:

**"HELP! HELP! MAMA! PAPA! HELP ME!**

**PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME!" **

But though he cried and shouted and pleaded, no one came. The wolves gazed up at him, roared. Their lonely, menacing call echoed out into the night, and when Alfred's voice cracked from hollering, truth broke over him as if someone had crushed the town's sole looking-glass over him:

_I'm going to die_.

Even if he could outlast them, even if they finally went away, they probably wouldn't give up on their prey until morning at least.

And by that time….

Alfred's eyes flooded with tears, and the young boy sobbed. No. He failed. He failed in his oath, his hero's word of honor, that he would save his brother. Right now Matthew was probably wondering where his twin was, why he wasn't there to take care of him and love him back to health, if he wasn't already….

_Mattie and I are both going to die_.

~o*oOo*o~

_I can feel a tug of you, little one, a tug of you…._

_Pulling at me, a thread, little strands of you, your spirit_….

Ivan sprinted in the forest, wishing that he could take the time to admire the great, colossal sticks above him, many of them already stripped bare of their leaves. It had been years since he'd seen anything other than the fields, the dreaded storage shed, the few houses and pastures he could see at the beginning or end of harvest year when he was thrown into a wheelbarrow and taken to and from a miserable old shack. Now he was flying, or it felt like it, on the miraculous sticks beneath him that did not seem to touch the ground.

An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and the shrill cries of bats echoed as they flew overhead, but still Ivan kept running, alien to the forest and yet familiar, because _Alfred was somewhere in here I just know it I feel it_.

The scarecrow kept running for some time, acknowledging that it was better not to think of the process of running, else somehow his feet got tangled up and he ended up crashing to the forest floor. For some reason, it was just something that came natural to him, something that would have been highly enjoyable if not for the nauseating sensation of fear that had stolen over him, made him sick_. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Matthew_. Perhaps Alfred already had the cure, perhaps not, but the mountains in the distance only grew bigger by a mite as he raced through the wood, following the internal coil the way he would a compass, the way Alfred had told him to follow the North Star.

If he could move so fast and Alfred could not, what had happened to the child? What if he had passed out, exhausted somewhere or had gotten a "chill?" Katyusha was always fretting about them these days, sometimes followed her son to the fields with a scarf in the early mornings, much to his son's embarrassment. Ivan did not know much about a chill, but considering how often he'd heard men complain of them as they worked during the colder season, it couldn't mean anything good.

He'd heard of people "catching" diseases, sicknesses like the one poor Matthew had, so what if one were loose in the forest, looking to catch Alfred? Alfred, the one true friend he'd ever had?

Ivan felt a spike of dread when, after a time a wolf cry echoed in the wood. He'd often heard wolves crying from a distance, but so close? The threads inside of him were tightening, harder and harder inside, assuring him _yes, this was the right wa_y when there were a million ways to turn, a million holes Alfred might have fallen into, a million ways for the boy to be lost—

But still nothing. He'd just about lost faith in his innate conviction when another sound began to echo, one he knew all too well, loved all too well, though it was much higher than usual and shot with fear and pain, bleating like a frightened lamb. Without a second thought, Ivan's speed increased to a full out canter, not needing to stop to breathe or rest. The world turned into a blur, lit only by his resolve:

_Alfred! _

Ivan tripped over a root, falling forward head over heels with a yelp of surprise over a hill and rolled down, down, down, landing against a tree a pack of hungry wolves had circled around, startled at his arrival.

~o*oOo*o~

By this time, Alfred had pressed his face against the trunk, waiting for a wolf to at last pounce upon a low branch and begin climbing up for him. He hoped, prayed with all of his might that Papa might charge into the clearing with his crossbow or ax at the ready and some of the other villagers. But no one came. As he abandoned himself to his fate, a wretched little boy started crying, faintly wondering what the new strange rustling sound was. Sounded like straw. Probably the wolves gathering kindling for a fire and preparing to cook him. Though he dreaded what he would see, he nonetheless looked down.

The wolves' growls and barks were picking up again, but their attention wasn't on the meal they so clearly craved high in the tree—they were backing up, snuffling the air as a dark shadow below shakily stood up, the sound of rustling dry straw breaking out again. Bewildered, Alfred swiped at his eyes with a fist and stared, aghast, at what looked like the shape of a human being clumsily step forward, wolves tentatively circling it, hackles raised. Alfred held his breath, wondered why they hadn't attacked yet. The enormous shadow—was even Papa that tall?—didn't seem armed. Were they afraid of how big it was? Was it even a man at all? A bear, maybe? Was that why they seemed so uneasy?

"RUN!" Alfred shrieked, and the shadow's head immediately whipped in his direction, but the leader of the pack decided that it was tired of waiting and charged the figure, sending it crashing to the ground. A great, maw of despair opened in the his heart when he saw the rest follow suit.

Alfred cried out again, this time in terror for the stranger and rightfully so, because with a ferocious snarl and a snap of teeth, the wolf's muzzle whipped back, clamped its jaws around the figure's arm. The shadow let out a startled exclamation as without prelude, the wolf promptly ripped the limb clean off the torso, chewing smugly. Still high up in the trees, only the need to keep holding on kept Alfred completely senseless from terror, though he did bury his face in shaking hands, hot tears spilling wildly down his face. His savior was lost.

He didn't see what happened next, but with an earsplitting CRACK, several beasts went flying, one hitting the oak, letting out a sharp whine of pain before it fell to the ground and lay still. Gasping, Alfred goggled down at the scene, watching as the shadow figure—now minus one arm—peered up to look at the top of the tree again. Alfred stared back, squinting desperately to make out any features. An arm. An arm had been torn completely off the body and yet the stranger was standing, not writhing on the ground in agony.

_"Whoa."_

The wolves lying crumpled on the ground began to get up, on trembling legs. It was obvious that they were unnerved by the stranger's tenacity; they didn't even bother running to scoop up the stranger's detached limb and making off with what meat they could. One decided that it was stupid enough to try again and flew for the figure, but with a revolving kick the wolf was sent soaring again, and the whimpering creature struck the earth with a resounding THUD. It rolled to its feet and promptly fled. The rest quickly followed suit, bolting away into the forest, _gone._

Starstruck, his heart soaring, Alfred watched them go, letting out a soft, shuddery chuckle of disbelief before whooping in near-hysteric glee. The stranger was still looking up at him, expectant. It had saved him. He had been braced for certain death and whoever it was had saved him. "You s-saved me! T-thank you!"

The figure said nothing. Alfred began to clamor down the trunk again, but paused, forehead creasing with a tiny frown as he squinted in the dark, trying to make out the hero's shape. Why wasn't he saying anything?

"H-hello?"

Still nothing. He swallowed, wondering if he'd managed to earn the ire of something much worse than a pack of mangy wolves. Why wouldn't it say anything?

"Papa?" he dared to ask, squinting desperately in the darkness. Who else could be quite so big? Or so strong? He leaned forward, not daring to climb completely down the tree.

"Who are…."

And where he'd expected to find wood, he found only empty air. Like a squirrel, he fumbled desperately back for the branch, but his aching foot slipped on blood and suddenly Alfred was hurtling down, out of the tree towards the ground. He was too startled to yell.

There was a noise, a shriek of distress, and Alfred fell against something much softer than he'd anticipated before he tumbled to the forest floor.

When he opened his eyes again, he was staring up at the sky, at a single star shining palely through the many trees extending their branches like so many skeletal hands. He must have fallen into a pile of leaves. Why else would he feel nothing but a mild soreness after falling what had to be eighty-one hundred feet?

Dazed, head spinning and blood pounding in his ears, Alfred made to raise himself up on his elbows, which shook beneath him like jelly.

But something touched his wrist, something certainly not flesh and bone. Something that felt unmistakably like a thumb ran over his wrist in a light caress. Alfred's breath hitched, sweat trickling down his face. He imagined for a moment that it was nothing more than him brushing against dead old straw, but it was in the shape of a _hand._

There was the briefest of pauses, and then, without warning, the hand that wasn't a hand tightened brutally over Alfred's wrist, a manacle as strong as steel. Eyes watering in pain, Alfred shouted and punched out in a panic; he felt his fist connect with something solid, and the vice-like pressure vanished.

Forgetting the pain in his leg entirely, he sped off, making again for the mountain. Alfred could hear the telltale sound of heavy footfalls crunching through leaves, mimicking him, in pursuit. A giant. A giant had found him and was going to grind his bones up to make bread. Howling, Alfred reached out for the silhouette of the peaks—

—and then he abruptly collided face first with a low branch, blistering pain errupting into stars before his eyes. The boy sank to his knees, hands clapping against a throbbing temple as the footsteps continued to approach him, closer now than ever.

He was trapped. The strange—THING—whatever it was—was certainly no one Alfred knew, and very possibly nothing human. His eyes started burning as a host of evil monsters traipsed through his mind, each demanding to be heard first. _Vampyre! Witch! The Tailypo_! Anything that could stand up to a wolf pack, lose an arm and not be unsettled was something even a hero could not defeat.

Eyes tearing once again, he dared looked up. A pair of purple eyes ghosted high overhead, fixed on him. They gleamed the way a cat's did when Alfred opened the barn and saw the mousers looking at him, eyes glowing like little lanterns in a death mask.

**"No!**" Alfred screamed, clawing desperately at the tree behind him. **"No!** Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me! _Please!_ Help! Helllllp! _SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME! **I'M GONNA DIE!"**_

The lumbering creature's heavy footfalls paused, the large shadow froze. The pale pair of eyes blinked, disappearing before reappearing, lower now, just inches away from his face. Quailing, Alfred pressed himself further against the gnarled oak, willing himself to sink into it and disappear.

"Please don't kill me…." He begged, eyes darting all around him for a weapon and finding none. "I can't die! Not now! M-Mattie needs me!"

The eyes looked at him, considered him. And the creature's good arm slowly reached out for him.

**_"Noooooo!_** Go away!"

The hot rush of tears again; it was so much worse now, because he truly had thought he was saved. Shaking hands thrown over his head, Alfred curled up into a ball and half-wailed, half bawled, willing for it to just end already. He braced for fangs to sink inside his throat, for the brutal hands to squeeze him to death, for a witch's sharp talons to gouge his eyes out.

___Don't be afraid, sweet one._

For a few terrible seconds, there was nothing but grief and stillness, broken only by his sobs. Then, there was the touch of straw at his arm again, but it was significantly gentler, a tremulous brush that reminded him of when Lili touched a horse for the first time, her little hand quivering as it ate an apple from her hand. Teeth grit, eyes squeezed tightly shut, Alfred dared open them, bewildered as the rough appendage warily traveled up to his shoulder, pausing when it found flesh. What was probably an index finger pressed against his neck, wandering down to his chest and pausing over his heart.

___Come to me. _

Very slowly, Alfred was tugged forward, pressed against something soft, sun-dried and frayed; he inhaled mothballs and dust, and he drank in the scent of dried straw and sweat. He hiccupped as he felt his chin fall over a shoulder, a hand tentatively touching his back, lightly patting it with soothing tenderness.

More tears oozed down his face as a large palm splayed over his head, clumsily, adoringly. _You're safe, you're safe, you're _here_ and I love you._

Hesitantly, Alfred turned his head and looked at the very pale tresses he could just make out with the assistance of the shining lavender eyes, haunted, feverish.

"Mi…"

Ivan just gazed at him, unblinking, willing him to understand. He tried to stand up again, but lost his footing and fell on his backside with a grunt of surprise, Alfred still enclosed in his arm. There was nothing but a gaping hole on the side where the other long and lanky arm should have been, and when the boy reached out for the wound with a sort of pervasive fascination, he felt only straw and torn fabric. No blood, no bone.

_It can't be. _

"Your arm…." Alfred swallowed heavily, voice cracking. "Ya...ya hurt real bad?"

Ivan's gaze wandered over a few feet away, where his other arm still lay, fabric ripped with several toothmarks. "O-ouch." The child swallowed and let out a shaky giggle when Ivan nuzzled his face, humming contently. Oh, well, what was an arm? It hadn't hurt to lose it; the only drawback was that Ivan couldn't hug Alfred the way he longed to. Then again, he supposed he'd need half a dozen arms for that.

"H-hi." Alfred rubbed his eye with a fist and let out a rough bark of laughter. "Was wonderin' when ya were gonna say hi back. I knew it, Artie's gonna be so _mad_," he crowed, hiccupping when Ivan pressed trembling lips against his cheek. "Told him so. Yer _real,_ Mistah Scarecrow."

The scarecrow shook his head. Made a strange keening noise. "Nyet," he faltered, and if he could have blushed, he would have. Face still pressed into Ivan's shoulder, Alfred felt confused.

"'Night?' Yeah, Mr. Scarecrow…um….it's night out," he said uncertainly, shivering. "And cold."

Did Ivan's body give out temperature? Likely not, but he squeezed Alfred closer anyhow. "Naaaaa," he croaked, startling a bit at the strange and awkward lilt to his voice. It had a strange sort of accent to it, certainly didn't have the natural twang of the farmers' voices.

"Can't ya talk?"

"Da," He returned desperately, meaning to say 'yes.'

"What langwitch d'ya speak?" Alfred asked as Ivan pawed unhappily at his mouth. How in the world did he use this thing? How did he make it pronounce the words in his head?

Suddenly, Alfred squawked and started flailing, and a confused Ivan just held on all the tighter, content to simply gaze down at the boy. He was alive. His little precious was alive, and he understood that _Ivan_ was alive.

He bit back a strange sound that was like a howl or a sob churning inside him. Why did he want to cry when he was so very, very happy, when peace and euphoria were exalting themselves like bird song or the dawn? Ivan screwed up his face, and he might have wept if he could have.

"You're hurt!" Alfred exclaimed, sounding horrified. "D-don't worry, d-don't be scairt, we can sew it back on! Um, can we?" Ivan shrugged-that was easy enough to do, though perhaps a quarter of his shoulder had been torn away. "Mistah Scarecrow...yer holdin' on kinda tight."

"S'wy." Ivan muttered, feeling his face burn as it had when the sun beat down on it for hours on end, as it had when Alfred kissed it. "Hiiiiing!" He shook his head. "Nyet..."

Feeling bad, Alfred slung his arms around his rescuer's neck. "Hey, s'not dat bad," he said reasonably, grinning when Ivan lifted sad eyes up to him. "Don't be sad, Mistah Scarecrow. I'll teach ya how to say stu-_owwww_."

As the fear and amazement started to drain away, Alfred became much more away of a throbbing, searing ache at his leg, and he hugged it to his chest, gritting his teeth and fighting back dirty oaths. Afraid that he'd been gripping too tightly again, Ivan immediately let go, not understanding when Alfred just waved his hand. "Owwwwww..." he whimpered, and Ivan saw the dark bloodstains gleaming on the poor limb where the beast had bitten it. "S-stupid wolf..."

Blood. Ivan stared, aghast. _Blood_. He had seen blood before, understood that blood was the filling of human beings, the stuff of life. Only it hurt you to lose it, could not be recovered by drawing it out of stacks. Blood meant terrible things, like a foot dashed upon a stone, or people injuring themselves upon equipment or bullies trying to make you suffer, turning sunkissed and sweet skin dirty grays, like smoke or stormclouds or brothers coughing for air that would not come. Red. The color of pain. Alfred was in pain. Pain was sorrow.

With a terrifying roar of rage he staggered to his feet, narrowed and infuriated violet eyes fixed at the brush where the wolves had gone. He would find them. He would find them and make them pay, make them see red and he would cause them pain and make them _understand_.

But Alfred cried out in alarm and started nervously patting Ivan's brow. "Hey! Hey! It's gonna be fine. Don't chase 'em down." How had he known what Ivan was thinking? "Hurt goes away, mostly. And it's not bleeding s'much now, see? I'm a hero. Heroes nevah get hurt too bad."

Only slightly appeased, Ivan grunted, unsteadily bent to pick up his fallen arm, and started walking back the direction he came. If Alfred were walking he would have had to make three strides for every one of the scarecrow's. "Hey, where are we going? We're not headin' home, are we?"

As if in response, Ivan touched the spot just above the angry bleeding wound on the boy's leg, and as an afterthought, kissed it.

"No!" Alfred protested desperately, throwing himself over Ivan's shoulder and pointing at the still-distant mountain. "Red and white flowah," he gasped, forcing Ivan to look at him. "Jijiya. We gotta find—can't be too late, no, no—please," he begged, and the sound nearly broke the cloth heart Ivan still carried in his breast. "Do you think we can get to the mountain pass in time to get the red and white Jijiya? It'll make Mattie well!"

When Ivan hesitated, Alfred pleaded again, sounding on the verge of tears. "_Please_. I can't do dis." So bitter, so true! "Please."

"Nyet." He clumsily patted Alfred's cheek. "Won. Faa-st."

* * *

~o*oOo*o~

Alfred decided that by 'won,' Ivan had meant 'run,' because this was something the scarecrow could do very well. He couldn't remember the last time he'd moved so _quickly_, and that was including both dashing into the wood to collect the cure and running to the table when Mama made blackberry pie. Even Papa's old mare Lightning was nothing in comparison to this speed, and though his hands ached from gripping Ivan's shirt, Alfred decided he adored the rush. It would have been infinitely more fun if the situation were not so grave.

The darkness in the sky was receding by the time Ivan climbed down the mountain again (which was really much more colossal than either of them anticipated), with Alfred clutching an armload of red and white flowers. Some of them blew away when Ivan took off running again, so he hastily stuffed some of the blooms into his shirt and held on, wind flapping wildly at his yellow bangs. He was exhausted enough to sleep, but while he knew Ivan would not let him go, his leg still hurt bitterly and he had to hold onto the Jijiya. And Ivan's other arm. He'd probably need that later on.

It had taken them hours to find the plant, and Ivan had only gotten to them after running and jumping from one treacherous slope to another, effectively chasing off ten or so years off Alfred's life. They'd very nearly slid off once or twice, and it was only because of Ivan's ridiculous strength and versatility with one arm that they didn't wind up impaled at the bottom of a canyon full of jagged rocks.

He kept his face pressed against Ivan's neck to hide his streaming eyes from the wind. "We gotta hurry," he shouted, wondering if the scarecrow could hear him at all. "Mattie may not...Mistah Scarecrow, please, run faster."

"Ooven," Ivan commented thoughtfully, still playing with the funny new lump in his mouth. When he moved it one way and made a noise before moving it again, another sound came out. Was it some sort of rudder for pronunciation?

Alfred peeked out, the world a blur of dark greenery about them as Ivan sprinted on. Thank heavens the scarecrow couldn't seem to grow tired. "Your name is Oven?"

"Nyet. Eeeeeven. Nyet."

"Evan?"

"I-VAN," He said falteringly, a sudden drop. "Ivan." He'd only ever once heard his name outside his own head, and he immediately found it quite pleasing to say it, more so to see Alfred's lips wonderingly shape it. He would have loved to stop and hear him say it, but he had to keep going.

The sun was rising when at last, at long last, they approached the edge of the village and Alfred could see smoke drifting lazily across the sky as people started their morning fires. He was weak with relief that Ivan knew the way back because Alfred...very possibly might...not have, and he was delighted to see a tiny orb of light shining at the end of the tunnel of trees. It grew into a series of glowing lanterns as Ivan began to slow down, approaching the end.

As the scarecrow burst out of the wood and finally slowed to a stop, Alfred glanced up and noticed a familiar little hooded figure sitting by the trees in a crudely drawn circle, clutching a stick in one hand and a candle in the other. He appeared to be praying.

"Hey, Artie!" Alfred cheered, Arthur's head snapping up sharply at the sound of his voice."I got da Jijiya! You were right, you were right!"

Face bloodless, Arthur gawked at Alfred, dark shadows underneath wide green eyes, eyes that slowly wandered from his friend to what appeared to be a disembodied arm in his hands...

...to a very familiar scarecrow _holding_ Alfred, slouching and tall like the specter of death, minus a scythe. It stared at Arthur's horrified form with eyes, actual strange eyes in a face sewn together from an old rucksack—

**_"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"_**

Arthur screamed.

He screamed, and he screamed, and he would not stop screaming, the sound carrying over the village and into the distance, endless screaming. Alfred's flushed and joyous look gave way to stark bewilderment as Arthur ran forward with his stick, and proceeded to start bapping Ivan on the leg with it. "H-hey! Shush, Arthur, knock it off, ya big baby, dis is Ivan, he _saved_—"

"Alfred, don't worry! I-I'll save you! I swear! Don't be scared, don't be scared-damn you, ugly, let go of him! Let go of him immediately!"

Ivan frowned and slowly took a step back, but the retreat only seemed to encourage Arthur's frenzy. "Begone with you, wicked demon! Back! Back, I say!" And what if Ivan didn't particularly want to go back? He could move now, and he would go where he well wanted to. "Alfred, what are you doing?!" Arthur howled in dismay before hailing blows on Ivan's stomach, which was the highest part of him he could reach. "Kick him! Grab his hair! PULL HIS EYES OFF! I think he'll lose his power if you take those!"

"Arthur, stoppit! That's not nice!" Alfred cried when Arthur seized a nearby stone and flung it at the scarecrow's face. "Ow! Dat was a big one! Ivan, put me down, I'll teach 'im, teach 'im good! Put me down, Ivan! Artie, Artie-STOPPIT! OW!"

Ivan decided that he'd had enough. He was unable to feel physical hurt, but that didn't mean he appreciated having rocks tossed at him in the slightest. Scowling heavily, he bent down, seized the struggling Arthur by the collar, and drew him to eye-level, simply watching the little wildcat kick and spit and snarl and yell, his little hands clawing violently at his hands.

A smooth, cool wave of satisfaction fell over Ivan, followed up by warm, sweet smugness. His grip tightened around Arthur's neck. Ah, but it was enjoyable to watch him squirm. From where he was tucked inside Ivan's elbow, Alfred was fighting valiantly and protesting anxiously, but soon he would catch Arthur's hilarious face-so flushed, so angry, so scared-and sweet Alfred would laugh, appreciating this justice. He would give Arthur a good scare and make him go away, because no one wanted Arthur Kirkland. But Alfred wanted Ivan, had kissed him. He sneered. The scarecrow was needed. No one needed Arthur Kirkland.

And Arthur had tried to take what Ivan decided with a brutal stab of conviction was _his_. Alfred would be his now. Why should he share? No one had shared with him before Alfred.

Without thinking about it, his fingers tightened around Arthur's neck. The boy choked, feet kicking feebly and worthlessly in the air.

A hand struck his face, and Ivan blinked, more startled than anything else. Red flowers spilling from his filthy clothes, Alfred was hitting him, beating him around the face, and shrieking:

"IVAN, NO! STOP THAT! NO! You're gonna kill him! STOPPIT! Let him go! LET HIM GO!"

His mind went blank, but for a word that spoke red:

_Kill...?_

And Arthur slipped from a now lax hand, falling to the ground with a grunt of pain. Gasping, he curled up into a ball, trembling hands falling over his head. Ivan watched blankly as Alfred jumped off him, longing to stop it but having no idea how to. The blue-eyed boy slipped, blood trickling down the re-opened bite and Alfred was scrubbing at his face with a fist as he bent over Arthur.

"Mama," The hooded child whispered hoarsely, eyes glittering with tears. He shuddered when Alfred hesitantly touched him, and let out an anguished sob. "Want Mama, Alfred, want Mama."

In that second, Alfred slowly looked up at the scarecrow, and the disbelief and _fear_ in his eyes just about destroyed Ivan. As if pursued by the devil, he took a step back, and then another, and another. _No. _

Stillness and solitude had been agony. But this was a whole different sort of hell. Hell was in Alfred's eyes, even as the worried child limped past the crying one on the ground and held out his arms toward Ivan imploringly. "Mi...Ivan..."

He would have loved to fall at Alfred's feet, to beg forgiveness, to bury his face in his lap and be dead. _Kill. Kill. Kill_.

Eyes burning, heart slipping underneath his shirt and tumbling onto the ground, Ivan turned, not even registering pleasure at the sound of the boy calling out his name:

"Ivan, Ivan, wait! Come back! It's okay, you didn't-**IVAN! Don't go!"  
**

But Ivan fled into the wilderness.

* * *

***Hits the floor* I pick a lot on wolves in this chapter,** **and I'm sorry if it seems I'm out to demonize them. As far as I can understand, wolves don't make it a habit to attack humans; they typically prefer livestock. Because all the villages have been heading out into the forest to hunt game to store for the winter, the wolves have been hungry and desperate. Ergo, they attacked Alfred. No actual wolves were maimed during the creation of this chapter.**

**How is Ivan so ridiculously agile and strong when he's a bundle of straw? Don't ask me. I don't know. He just is. Get off me. **

** Poor everyone. :( *Sighs* I really am awful. Next chapter won't be very long, but warning: It will be very likely be pure, pointless-seeming...well, fluff.** **Marshmallow Baby Peep Fluff. With honey. Hopefully. Maybe it'll just be more angst. Please review, for reviews make my heart go...DOKI DOKI! **


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